Evening and Angels Falling
by IsabellaImogen
Summary: When a shy woman joins the backstage team at the Opera Populaire, what will she think of the presence lurking in the opera house? Will she be drawn into the glamourous, glittering melodrama that plays itself out before the footlights?
1. A New Life in Paris

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the canon characters or settings. Leroux, ALW, and now I suppose that Shumacher guy own it.**

**A/N: I don't know if this is going to turn into a romance or remain platonic at this point. Ella is nigh uncontrollable as a heroine, saying and doing all manner of things I never tell her to. This is set about 2 years after the movie version (which took place in 1871, as opposed to the stage version of 1861) but I have not taken the plot of the movie as a basis. The Opera Populaire has not been destroyed by fire, and is still up and running, albeit under new management and with new stars. I also hope to give it more of a backstage view of things, rather than speaking from the glory of the limelight. **

**Please RR! This is my first posted and one of my first written fanfics, so please be gentle. I can handle a good honest critique, but I bruise just as easily as the next peach! ;)**

_March, 1873 _

_Crossing the British Channel, en route from London to Paris aboard the H.M.S. Seraphine_

"'Once as I told in glee / Tales of the stormy sea/ Soft eyes did gaze on me/ Burning yet tender. / And as the white stars shine / On the dark Norway pine/ On that dark heart of mine / Fell their soft splendor…' oh!" Ella Marwood went silent on her gasp, and her bright green eyes continued to scan the page of the small bound book she held in her lap, even as the ship timbers creaked and rocked under her seat in the cramped cabin.

"Oh Ella, for Heaven's sake, put it away! I can hardly think, I'm so sea-sick, and you are only compounding the problem with your horror tales and grisly poems of sailor's skeletons speaking of their tragic fates!" The speaker's English was impeccable, with only traces of her native French, adding, Ella thought, zest and novelty to her speech.

With a shy grin, Ella slipped the volume of poetry—some American named Longfellow—into her reticule, and crossed the cabin in less than two steps. Kneeling before her friend, she blinked endearingly into the slightly green face of the nauseous Mademoiselle Giry.

"Forgive me, Meg, dearest, but I saw the book in that little used-book shop down by the quay and simply had to buy it for the voyage. It's been sitting there, do desolate and abandoned, for over 30 years perhaps…the shopkeeper told me it was an original edition, published in 1841…'Ballads and Other Poems.' I suspect someone brought it over from America years ago."

"Don't think that just because I wheedled the manager of the Opera Populaire into giving you an advance on your pay so you could buy your things for the journey you can run out and buy all the books in London AND Paris!" Ella's eyes widened a little.

"Oh! No! I only…well, just this one small book! And I really have everything I need for Paris, and I can easily alter my dresses to be fashionable or serviceable or both…"

"Such is the magic of the seamstress and milliner. I'm so glad I found you, as a friend and as a professional" Ella blushed and shook her head.

"I'm no professional. I just have a knack with sewing."

"A knack and a overwhelming amount of talent and taste! You have an eye for fashion the likes of which Paris has yet to see!"

"High praise coming from a Parisian herself. And since I'm only the assistant to the costume mistress, I doubt I'll be doing more than sewing knotted fringe onto four dozen chorus costumes for twelve hours a day."

"But you are nonetheless very much to be appreciated. Poor Madame Fortier is beside herself, what with having to mend all the costumes from the last opera and alter them and make new ones for Donizetti's "L'elisir d'Amore." She'll be beside herself with joy once you arrive. Quite the stroke of genius I had in thinking to suggest you when the position needed filling. I saw your divine hat creations in Madame Griffith's millinery shop and it turned out you were the most amazing seamstress I've ever come across. Do you know I wrote to Monsieur James that very evening and positively insisted he hire you? Also you are now a dear friend of mine and I simply found I could not return to Paris without you by my side." She smiled at Ella, and squeezed her hand in a friendly manner.

"Oh Meg, dear, I do apologize for upsetting you, and to make up for it, I shan't read 'The Wreck of the Hesparus' aloud as I was planning to!" Meg rolled her eyes at this.

"God bless you. Now either sit quietly—and for the love of God, don't fidget—or go fetch me a cold cloth for my brow and perhaps you could find something to settle my stomach." Ella's eyebrows shot towards the ceiling and she sat back on her heels, tossing her dark red head a little, her chin rising a notch.

"Well now, La Carlotta, anything else you would like me to do for you? May I grovel while I'm down on my knees here to begin with?" Her tone was dry, but her eyes sparkled as she recalled the many stories Meg had told her of the formidable former diva of the Opera Populaire. Meg laughed outright at this and shook her head a little.

"And who says the British haven't a sense of humour?" She grinned at Ella. "Thank God we've got Clara Gabrielle as our soprano now. She's meek and works well under direction, and her stage presence isn't all that bad. I tell you, I'd rather have a mediocre star than the machinations of the likes of Carlotta. Of course, I'd love to have Christine back, but she is happily married to the Vicomte de Chagny these two years now, and living in the south…" Meg faded off a little, her face thoughtful.

"Why did she leave? Aside from her marriage, I mean. From what you've told me, it all seemed rather abrupt, and you were fortunate to find Clara as quickly as you did, what with no star…" Meg nodded, slowly.

"Yes, we were fortunate." She bowed her head a little, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. Where to begin? "I don't know all the particulars of Christine's story, it would be better if she could tell it, even if she wished to. There was a man…a ghost…I was never sure which. Though my mother speaks little of it all, I believe she knows much of what went on, much more than she ever lets on. There were 'accidents'…murders, and dark happenings in the opera house. Piangi, our lead male, was one of the victims. It was all so macabre and awful. It was a horrible time for all of us at the opera. As far as anyone could tell, Piangi had nothing to do with any of it, and simply had the misfortune to be drawn into a plot he had no knowledge of nor any control over. If he could be killed, any one of us might be next. It all came to a head that night. A mob went to the cellars of the Opera Populaire, and we found a lake, and a lair." Meg refrained from mentioning the mask she had found, which she still kept locked in a small chest in her room. "Whatever it—he—was, was gone for the time being. Christine and Raoul, the Vicomte, were shortly married, and left quite soon after that. The known passages to the lair were bricked up, and everyone has tried to forget. Last year we received new management under Monsieur James Brigham, an Englishman, like you. My mother has gone into semi-retirement, by allowing me to choreograph many of the dances we now perform, but she retains her hold on the management of the ballet for the time being. Maybe when I am older, I shall be mistress of the ballet!" Meg began to speak of her dreams of controlling the ballet at the Opera Populaire, indeed, it was what she had been born and bred to do, but Ella couldn't help noticing that Meg seemed eager to change the subject. Before Meg was too far gone from the topic, Ella asked one more question:

"Has anything happened since? With the ghost-man, I mean?"

Meg paused.

"There have been no signs that the Opera Ghost has returned, nothing definite," she took a small breath. "But there are times…when you can feel something in the air. Nothing threatening, really, nothing intrusive. But the walls of the Opera have eyes, Ella…eyes and ears."

Meg's cryptic words hung in the air for a long moment, as Ella pondered them and Meg wished she could think of a better way to describe the sad feeling of loss and longing that lingered in the dark, silent recesses of the Opera Populaire.

Perhaps she wished she hadn't mentioned it at all.


	2. Welcome to the Opera Populaire

**Disclaimer: Me no own le Monsieur le Fantome.**

**A/N: Sorry if anyone read the first version I posted and was confused before I revamped it and changed Ella's last name from Fitzgerald to Marwood. She needed a last name established in that one sentence and I unthinkingly put in a name that made me kick myself later while swearing a blue streak. And thank-you to Ruth for having a hearty laugh at my expense over the whole debacle. I wondered why the name seemed to suggest itself and flowed so well. I thought I was just making my metamorphosis into genius effortless-writer. In truth I just had one of my most massive brain farts to date; and for that I apologize. For this chapter, since I know next to nothing of how fast travel by carriage is nor the actual distance between Calais and Paris, I've estimated, so don't call me on it if I take a week-long journey and condense it into two days, or take a two hour journey and stretch it into 48 hours. Maybe their horse or driver died…or something… Anyhow, thank you SO much to the reviews I've gotten, you have no idea how they made my day! (I'm a dork, I know!) Please continue to RR and I'll try my hardest to update fairly quickly.**

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_March 1873 _

_Disembarking at Calais, France_

"Hurry along, Ella!" The words left Meg's lips in French, for as soon as she had stepped off the ship onto—blessedly—solid ground, her native tongue had surrounded her, causing her to slip unwittingly into her Parisian dialect. Stopping a moment, Meg closed her eyes and pressed her gloved palms to her eyelids, trying to assuage the tired ache that throbbed behind them. "Ella, please!" She turned and repeated herself in English for the benefit of her British friend, who was dallying alongside the vendor's carts that lined the streets of Calais around the dockyard and shipping port. Meg scanned eyes over the crowd, finally signaling a porter to assist them with Ella's trunk, which was being unloaded from the ship's hold along with other luggage.

Ella gave a small sigh of excitement as she glanced eagerly and approvingly over her surroundings. She was used to the crowds and mundane activities that went on in seaside towns like Calais and Ramsgate, as well as the larger cities of London and now Paris; but the mellifluous sound of French being spoken was enough to give it a sense of the exotic. Men selling freshly caught fish, mending nets, and sailors loitering on the wharves yelled to one another, and a few made crude remarks as Ella walked by, blissfully unaware of their indiscreet glances and lewd comments. Meg's voice cut through the fog of her dazed thoughts and her head turned towards the sound, as she located Meg a ways down the crowded street. Ella hastened her pace, but was only able to make her way slowly towards the place where Meg stood impatiently.

"Well, all I can hope is that the mail coach hasn't left without us! It stops at the inn down there at 3 in the afternoon, and now it's quarter past!" Meg's irritation was heavy in her voice, and she took Ella's arm as they began to make their way through the crowds. Ella fumbled in her pocket for her handkerchief to press over her mouth and nose as the smell of unwashed bodies and fish heads assaulted them, and the cry of the seabirds wheeling overhead echoed harshly against the steel-gray sky. The porter followed, bearing Ella's trunk on a small cart, carrying the bag she had also packed.

As they rounded the corner and approached the entrance to the inn, Meg spoke rapidly in French to the woman who stood out front by the door, who replied in kind and shook her head, pointing down the street. Meg groaned and felt her headache strengthen.

"What? What is it?" Ella asked, concerned.

"We've missed the mail coach, which means we'll have to hire a cab of sorts. Oh, if only we'd gotten here five minutes sooner!" Meg told the porter to unload the trunk, and she paid him out of her small purse.

"Here, you can take the money out of my pay advance, I still have some left. It was my fault we didn't get here any faster…" Ella looked down at the ground and her lip began to quiver a little. She shrugged off the nagging doubts that perhaps she ought not to have come to France at all and looked the younger woman in the eye steadily. As Meg opened her mouth to protest, Ella shook her head and placed a hand on Meg's shoulder. "No, I've been dealing with this for the last twenty years of my life, don't you dare try to feel sorry for me now. Any and all self-pity you see me displaying is to be nipped in the bud, understand?" Meg simply gave Ella a long, hard look, then nodded a little.

"How about I pay half and you pay half? In the name of equality?" Ella smirked at this.

"Equality to you is something I'll never know and you're quite aware of that. Ah well, some were made to dance and some were made to sew, and that is where I find my excellence."

"Ella…" Meg's tone was soft and slightly awed. "I shall never understand how you are able to live in a world such as this, as you are, with no traces of cynicism or bitterness about life."

"And I shall never understand how you are able to live in a world such as yours, as _you_ are, and yet be able to find things to be cynical and bitter about. There now, here comes an unoccupied cab, let us hail it and get the driver to load my things…"

The cab was hailed accordingly, and only after they were settled and on their way to Paris did Ella allowed herself the luxury of wallowing in the excitement of her new life as she watched the landscape and villages roll by, endlessly, it seemed. As they traveled inland, they stopped at the town of Amiens to avoid traveling through the night. The next morning, they made their way onward to Paris, and arrived at the Opera Populaire in the late afternoon.

"Mademoiselle Giry! A pleasure to have you back!" A rotund, graying man burst out through the side entrance to welcome them. He gave Meg a fatherly hug as she had already stepped from the carriage, then turned to help Ella from the cab. "And you must be the Mademoiselle Marwood! An honour, Mam'selle, an honour, I am sure!" While his accent was thicker than Meg's, his English was understandable, and Ella smiled widely at the energetic old man.

"Ella, this is Monsieur Francois Dumond, the general groundskeeper and caretaker at the Opera," Meg quickly facilitated the introductions. Sooner than she knew, Ella was inside, and her trunk being borne into the small but comfortable room that she was to share with Meg at the young Giry's request in her letter to the manager of the Opera.

Meg strode easily through the well-known corridors of the opera house, poking her head into various doors and announcing their arrival. Ella received introduction after introduction, and at last they reached a pair of thick wooden doors that would lead to the manager's office. Meg rapped briefly on the heavy door, then grasped the polished brass handle and pushed it open. The click of her heels ceased as she and Ella moved from the polished wood of the hallway to the thick wine-red carpet that lined the opulent office.

A tall man stood by the desk, in the attitude of having just risen from his seat, but his eyes remained fastened on the ledger and papers in front of him for a moment before he raised his eyes to the two young women. A smile appeared on his face as he gestured for the two to sit, seeing that Ella was looking more than a little harried and hoping that Meg's presence would ease her anxiety.

"Bonjour and hello. I'm James Brigham. I understand you are our new costuming assistant to Madame Fortier, a Mademoiselle Marwood?" Ella nodded quickly from her seat next to Meg upon a lounge.

"Yes, I am, and I thank you ever so much for the advance on my pay. Seeing as you don't know me at all, I imagine it must be difficult to place your trust in someone that you haven't even met. I promise you, you will not be disappointed with my work, Monsieur." Ella let out a breath as she finished, having been desperate to express her gratitude and honest desire to do a good job here.

"I find I can easily trust one of whom I have only heard the best things. Mademoiselle Giry has told me much of you in her letters, and I am sure that none of the praise has been exaggerated. " Ella shot a glance at Meg, who was smirking proudly at her, and flushed a light pink. "I understand you also draw a great deal, Mam'selle?"

"Sorry?" Ella blinked a moment to gather her thoughts. "Yes, that is, I mean to say, yes I do draw somewhat, and fairly shabbily at that. I only sketch basic outlines of costumes and hats and whatnot in order to present a clearer picture to my client of what I have in mind for them."

"A formidable talent, nonetheless. You are quite welcome here at the Opera Populaire, Mademoiselle Marwood, or may I say Miss Marwood? You've no idea how pleasant it is for me to have a fellow Englishman—woman—here at the Opera. The French are a lovely group of people, but when all's said and done, there is still much to be said for one's homeland." Ella smiled shyly, the first show of happiness since her arrival.

"Indeed," she said simply, slanting a peep at Meg, whose smirk had turned into a flirtatious smile as her blue eyes snapped to Monsieur Brigham.

"Monsieur James, I really must protest in defense of my people. The French have many qualities that are unheard of in England, and which I have sorely missed in my sojourn there."

"Oh?" His tone was lightly curious and teasing. "And what are these qualities that you speak of?"

"Daring, gallantry, openness to new ideas—if you'll both excuse me, I find the English to be a rather repressed and backwards lot, that joie de vivre that is so often neglected and forgotten, and lastly, romance! Ugh, but the romantic fare they had to offer in England was most certainly not to my taste or my liking. All this talk of courtly love and a kiss on the hand! Any Frenchman knows better that that! There is no grand passion and no allure in such a baldly barefaced society."

"Yet in being barefaced, we British are also closed to new ideas and repressed, you say? Hm, what a contradictory people we must be, eh Miss Marwood?" James shot a wink Ella's way and she blushed further and looked at her hands clasped in her lap.

"Oh Monsieur James, you are far too clinical! One of these days I'll have to show you what passion and romance are supposed to be like!"

"Mademoiselle Giry, I don't believe I have the strength nor the stamina!" His tone was in jest, but Ella looked up in time to see James looking down at his ledger while Meg looked at him with fun and—was it yearning?—dreaming and sparkling in her eyes.

As Ella and Meg left to go unpack Ella's things, Ella began to babble a little about her excitement, having forgotten the silent, intimate moment she had witnessed in the office.

"I believe I shall find life at the Opera quite fascinating…I don't think I should wish to return to England again!" Meg seemed to shake herself from a reverie of sorts as she opened the door to their room.

"Yes, quite," she said quietly, distantly. "I believe it _does_ look like rain."


	3. Specters and Scoundrels

**Disclaimer: I do not own: the Phantom and the canon characters from the book, show, or movie.**

**I DO own: A formidable CD collection (granted not many are actually MINE,) a love of the written word, the coolest pair of socks in the world, and Your Soul.**

**A/N: Thank you to my reviewers…all three of you. You've made my day and prompted me to continue. So here's the idea: The more reviews I get, the more I am tempted to write and update sooner! Even honest critiques if something I write is awful. It spurs me to try harder to be better.  And stop messing with my mind. The past two days have been pure hell because my updates have been intermittently appearing and disappearing before my eyes, not matter how skillfully I post them. Why are others able to read my updates and review them before I am even able to see my updates put into place? I've tried accessing this on several different computers (all right, two or three,) but my point still stands. I beg of you, for the safety of my mental health, do not continue to balance me on the razor's edge of rage. Although the freak-out I had this afternoon was healthy and fun while I was at it, it was physically exhausting and demeaning as I realized those around me were watching with interest as I flailed and bellowed my fury to the heavens. Also, please note that I will be updating fairly regularly, but not every day, as you may be getting spoiled here. Sorry this took so long to post, it's been completed for a while but I never got around to posting it as there were some minor changes that had to be made as well as school, birthdays, and theatre productions in which I had a fairly major role all culminated over the last few weeks, making it difficult for me to find time to update. I shall try to be more prompt in the future, and please keep reviewing and encourage your POTO-loving friends to read E&AF! (So long as they aren't vehemently opposed to any possible EOC pairings. Safe to say Christine isn't coming back for anything more than a cameo appearance perhaps to strengthen the angst later on.)**

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_April 1873,_Paris, France 

Crepuscular shadows crept in at the windows as Ella bent her head over her work, the light of the single gas light fixture shining steadily in the gathering darkness. Sitting in her small workroom, she bunched up the yards of pale pink taffeta that she'd been hemming for costumes and folded it neatly. She placed it in a cupboard along with the matching skein of silk thread, her needle stuck into the place where she'd stopped work, along with a scrap of brightly-coloured tissue paper to help her find the small silver needle in the dim light of the room. She stood slowly and stretched, blinking her eyes a little to relieve the burning dry ache that stung the backs of her eyelids after the hours she had passed squinting at her minuscule stitches.

Cocking her head to listen, she heard the faint echo of voices raised in song from the far end of the corridor, from the direction of the stage, where rehearsals were underway for L'elisir d'Amour. Meg, of course, was dancing one of the principal roles, and Clara Gabrielle was holding steadily under the role of Adina while the Opera Populaire's dashing young tenor Sebastien Levasseur gloried in his role as Nemorino, the love-stricken peasant. Ella hummed along with the lively tune as the peasant chorus sang, and danced, led by Meg. Creeping a ways down the hall, Ella could see from the wings onto the stage, where Meg twirled, her long golden locks spinning out from her face like a halo. Ella began to feel dizzy just watching her, so she turned, smiling, and went back to her small workroom, turning down the gas light and taking her work basket in her hand, she shut the door and left the room.

Making her way down the hall towards her bedroom, Ella rounded a corner on a short flight of stairs sharply, nearly stepping headlong into James Brigham. A small shriek left her as she tilted crazily backwards, her arms reaching behind her for something to hold onto. Her work basket tumbled down the stairs, its contents scattering everywhere. Ella didn't fall, only sat down fairly hard upon the stairs that rose rather steeply behind her. In an instant, James was kneeling on the stair before her, a steadying hand on her shoulder as she shook herself from the daze of her fall.

"Miss Marwood! I do beg your pardon, are you all right?" His earnest dark brown eyes gazed into her pale face as she blinked rapidly, nodding.

"Quite all right, I thank you. I just had a bit of a shock there, is all."

"Are you sure you're not hurt? You look as if you might have turned your ankle…"

"No!" Ella said quickly, and rather loudly. "My ankle is fine!"

"Miss Marwood, I assure you, I have no ulterior motives in wanting to have a look at your ankle, I simply wish to know if a doctor is needed to—" He stopped suddenly, as in spite of Ella's frantically batting hands, he had lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal a plain brown wooden shoe on her left foot, with a wooden sole that extended five inches from the bottom of her foot. The foot itself seemed to twist slightly inward, and James held her foot in his hand for a long moment of silence as he stared at it almost in disbelief. At last Ella's voice bridged the quiet, raw, with an edge that suggested she was moments from having hot tears pour down her cheeks.

"Please…just…don't say anything." Standing, she slowly made her way around him on the thin staircase and bent to pick up the fallen articles from her work basket, her back to James.

"Miss Marwood…"

"No, please, I understand. I'll be on the first ship back to England in the morning."

"Miss Marwood!" He caught her by the elbow and held her still, even as she strained to pull away and get to the privacy of her room as quickly as possible. "Miss Marwood, why did you not tell me, or anyone, of your…condition?" Bless him for putting it so delicately, thought Ella.

"Meg knows…but…we thought, I mean, I thought, that you might not hire a cripple to work for you. You've seen my foot, you might as well know that I have a twisted back as well. Not quite so obviously, my…my corset helps me stand straight." Ella blushed profusely as she realized she had just mentioned her undergarment to a man, her employer! "Either way, I shall be gone on the morrow."

"Miss Marwood, whatever the condition of your foot or your spine may be, I have hired you on good authority from Mademoiselle Giry that you have flawless taste and an admirable talent for sewing and costume design. Now, although I confess to know little of the task, it seems to me that sewing requires a good eye and clever fingers, both of which seem to be in working order, in your case. Mademoiselle Giry has shown me some samples of your work, which she brought back with her from England, and I must say that even my crude mannish sensibilities are impressed by your flair for fashion and elegant perception. Now before you say another word, Miss Marwood, I would ask that you do _not_ take the first possible boat back to England, and if it is not too much to seek, I would beg that you continue to grace my Opera House for as long as it pleases you." Placing a courtly kiss on the knuckles of her right hand, which he had held throughout their conversation, he bent, picking up the last objects that had fallen to the floor, placing them in her basket. The gaslights of the hallway shone on his golden-brown hair, and he gave a small bow and a friendly smile before he continued off down the corridor. Ella stood speechless for a moment, gathering her whirling thoughts, and as she turned and continued towards her room, she could have sworn she heard Monsieur Brigham whistling gaily somewhere down the dim darkness of the hallway.

As Ella reached the doorway to her room, she reached for the handle and glanced one last time at the staircase far down the passage where she had spoken with James. Perhaps she blinked, or the black shadows in the gaslight were playing games on her fatigued mind, but she could have sword she saw the edge of something move, just out of sight, around the corner.

"Hello?" She called out, her voice trembling a little. Stop it, you silly girl, she chastised herself. "Who's there?" When no one answered, she turned the handle and went into her and Meg's room, shutting the door behind her. For no reason she knew, she suddenly recalled Meg's words: _The walls of the Opera have eyes…eyes and ears…_ Well whatever it had been, it hadn't the ears to hear her calls. Nonetheless, Ella made sure the lock on the door worked, then sat on a small chair, laughing a little at her usually somewhat-sensible self. As if a locked door could stop a ghost, especially the one that used to haunt the Opera! Shaking her head, she unlocked the door, and for good measure, she stuck her head into the hallway, looking first one way, then the other. If anyone was about, they made neither sign nor sound, and Ella retreated back into her room. Even as the thick, heavy door shut with a quiet click, soft footsteps sounded heavily down the empty passageway as a lone figure carried on down the hallway. Stopping a moment outside Ella's door, the figure laid a hand on the polished wood, and, shaking his head, he spoke, lowly, so quiet that only he could hear.

"Sleep well, girl. The world will not be any kinder to you than they have been to me." So saying, the individual turned and continued down the hall, where, pulling a tapestry aside, he slipped through a hidden door and disappeared amid a lonely silence, but for the flickering hiss of the gaslights.

Meg continued in her dance, even as she saw James appear in the wings. Even though he stopped and appeared to be in deep conversation with the prop manager, Meg straightened a little taller and put an extra ounce of thrust into her pirouette. She felt the rhythm and balance match and mesh within her body, which she preferred to think of as a finely tuned instrument. She executed the turn perfectly, and only spared a moment to slip her glance in James' direction. She felt a moment of agonizing, helpless rage as he still had his eyes fastened on the notes the props manager was holding out to him. A moment later, the music brought her back to attention and she hastened to catch up, knowing she was already a beat behind in the music. Though she sensed her mother's disapproving and knowing stare, she refused to meet it, focusing all the more on her dancing.

Madame Giry sighed inwardly and looked discreetly at Monsieur Brigham, then Meg. Her daughter's motions were expertly precise and technically perfect, but the ballet mistress knew that something was amiss and her daughter's mind was elsewhere.

"And I would not be wrong in knowing where, or should I say, _who_, it is centered upon," she muttered to herself under her breath. True, she thought, Meg is young—only just 18!—but the girl had more important things to do right now instead of wasting her time mooning over handsome young monsieurs, especially the manager of the Opera Populaire! Gripping the carved knob atop her heavy walking stick, she pounded the staff upon the stage's boards in time to the music.

"Point your toes, Maria! Face up, Lise! Marguerite, Suzette, your forms are atrocious! Meg Giry! Keep your mind on your dancing or get out of my corps de ballet! Nicole, Danielle, your arms must be higher, you will never—" Madame Giry continued with her tirade against the dancers, able to find at least one thing wrong with even the best among the corps de ballet. Meg closed her eyes for a moment, groaning inside. So much for special treatment from my own mother, she thought. As she returned to take her place for the opening of the dance number, her mother's words rang clearly in her mind and Meg paled slightly, shaken inside. Madame Giry knew.

"Oh Heavens! Ella, tell me, is it that obvious?" Later that night, Meg sat beside Ella on her bed, gripping Ella's hands tightly. "Does it show?" Ella paused, considering the look she had seen on Meg's face the day they arrived, nearly a month ago.

"I would not say that any passerby would assume you in love with him, but you _are_ very flirtatious around him." Meg moaned and dropped her face into her hands.

"But besides that, would they see how desperately in love I am with that man? His hair is just the colour of dark honey…and his eyes…like the finest dark chocolate, melted. Every time he looks at me I feel as though I can taste bittersweet chocolate, like they sell slabs of down by the patisserie in the sweet shop! The thick creamy kind, so dark it's almost black, like coffee, and with a taste so rich it nearly deprives one of all four other senses! I feel like I will die, or the very least faint dead away, every time he takes my hand to help me from a carriage! Oh Ella, what am I to do?" Ella considered her next words very carefully.

"I think, that we ought to leave it all be for now. Act normally, and we shall see if Monsieur Brigham requites your feelings. Just because your mother knows doesn't mean everyone does. She will not speak of it, and she is a remarkably perceptive and intuitive woman. Meg, you are too much of a lady to throw yourself at him." Meg sighed, rubbing at her tear-stained cheeks and watery eyes.

"I know, I know! But, its just so—the whole situation is driving me mad!" Ella reflected for a moment, then humour lightened her features.

"The here's what you do: you withdraw. You pull back, stay away from Monsieur Brigham, cool, distant, aloof!" Meg looked honestly incredulous.

"I could no sooner separate myself from the air I breathe!"

"Hear me, Meg. When you withdraw from trying to place yourself at the center of Monsieur Brigham's attentions, mayhap he will miss you when you are gone." Meg stared into the distance and then nodded, slowly, gulping a little.

"I see…and…and I think I ought to try it. If anything it will give me some peace from this mad house I've made for myself." Ella nodded approvingly.

"And besides," she said cheerily. "There are other fish in the sea. What about that Monsieur Levasseur? He's quite handsome, you know!"

"Hm? Sebastien? Handsome? Oh, yes, he is; and he knows it too!" Meg shivered a little. "Ella, if you ever take any of the advice I give you, let it be that you stay away from Monsieur Levasseur."

"Is he an utterly depraved rogue, then?" Ella asked, the jesting tone still heavy in her voice. Meg turned to her and looked ardently at her.

"No, Ella, I'm serious. Monsieur Levasseur…there have been rumours."

"Rumours?" Meg nodded.

"That the year before last he was forced to leave his place in London after he…shamed a young chorus member of the Opera there, and refused to marry her. Apparently he left her with a lot more than a ruined career and gambling debts of his to pay off…" Meg quirked a brow meaningfully. Ella gasped.

"A child?"

"Twins, evidently." Ella's eyes widened, and she felt rather uneasy, knowing that she spent most of her days in close quarters with a man deemed a veritable rake.

"Does Monsieur James—Mr. Brigham—know of this?" Meg shrugged prettily.

"I do not know. One would assume that he cannot help but hear the gossip going around, but gossip cannot be taken as the truth in matters of business and handsome tenors are scarce. Monsieur Sebastien would of course deny it all if anyone ever dared to ask him the truth of the matter, and no one does. There's violent kind of rage about the man that is ever present and fills me with dismay every time I must pass him in the hallway. He's already made passes at some of the corps de ballet the past few months, and they have all luckily been with a group at the time or have gotten away quickly. Something tells me that if I were not the daughter of the ballet mistress, and an influential member of the Opera, he would come after me as well. Even so, these obstacles could mean nothing to him and it may only be a matter of time…Take care, Ella. Take the utmost care. All it takes for him is a pretty face and a necessary…erm…female endowments."

"Well you needn't worry about me," said Ella stoutly. "My face may be pretty, but the rest of me is a force to be reckoned with, I am sure!"

"All the same, if you are ever alone in here for the night, be sure to lock the door."

"A locked door…may not keep the ghosts at bay, but a man intent on ruining fair maids, yes!"

"What do you mean, ghosts?" Meg asked, looking curiously at Ella, with a small spark of alarm in her eyes.

"Nothing, Meg, dearest. Let's get some sleep."


	4. Silent Witnesses

**Canon characters and settings and ideas: DISCLAIMED!**

**A/N: Dang ifI don't keep getting better and better at this. Of course I have been horridly neglecting my blogs, but I did that BEFORE I started writing fanfic too. Hooray for me! You ought to be impressed that I'm writing three continuous fanfics all at once and making even the barest effort to keep them regular as well as two fictional blogs and one non-fiction blog as well as writings that I haven't published online in any way. Technically speaking, right now I am at my most prolific. Most people write one story at a time. Not me. I also have about 10 books on the go. Books I got for Christmas, books I got for my birthday, and books I'm reading for school and for my own pleasure. I also have my name on waitlists for books at my local library. TELL ME WHEN TO STOP!**

* * *

Ella bent her head over her work, focusing intently as she quickly sewed a button into place with expert hands, having performed to motion a thousand times, at least. Perhaps it was the mundane activity that caused her mind to drift slightly, and she soon found her thoughts revolving around the strange occurrences of the past week or so. Time after time she had rounded a corner, topped a flight of stairs, or glanced above as she stood on the great stage of the Opera Populaire, measuring dancers for costumes, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of some shadow fleeing into the dark recesses or the Opera house. What bothered Ella most was that she couldn't decide if the chilling incidents frightened her or titillated her.

In any case, Meg would not speak to her of them, as she was occupied with her own problems, it seemed. Ella often found herself fantasizing over these sights and sounds. For all she knew it could be a shy stagehand or a busy chorus member. She had never seen the figure's face, and, with a jolt, she realized that she had no evidence that what she had seen or heard was even a human at all. A waving limb, the edge of a cloak or skirt, a movement in the corner of her eye, a whisper of sound in the distance in the still silence of midnight; she could never be sure what she saw or heard, or if she had sensed anything at all.

Ella was unceremoniously dumped back into reality as she jabbed herself in the finger with her needle. She let out a few choice curses, then looked about guiltily, remembering the paper-thin walls. With a sigh, she held her hand away from the pale material to avoid staining it as the blood welled, ruby-red, in a bright bead on the tip of her finger. Ella stuck her finger in her mouth, muttering a prayer of repentance for cursing. So much time spent in solitary work was apt to make one callous and unfit to socialize with, she mused, resolving to make an effort to behave in the future as though someone were watching or listening, even here in her little workroom.

Little did she know, someone was.

He'd been watching her intermittently for weeks, never on purpose, never obsessive; but whenever he chanced to catch a glance of her as she went about her work, he'd keep an eye on her for a few minutes to make sure she was all right. He didn't know why he felt this odd mix of concern and defensiveness. He knew well that she needed no protection, as there was little danger in the Opera for a girl such as herself. Ella was such a strange combination of strength and weakness, independence and reliance, aged wisdom and adolescence, that he hardly knew whether to watch her carefully or leave her to her own devices. To satisfy his own curiosity, he watched over her as he went about his daily business. He knew nothing of her, so he vowed only to observe, and never, under any circumstance, was he to initiate contact with her. There was no reason to do so, he thought. Considering he could never love anyone but Christine—excuse me, the Vicomtess de Chagny—there was little to no emotional risk involved, but He was already solitary by both nature and design, and who could blame him if he condemned all company after the events of two years past? The little cripple girl provided a focus in his mind, and while he would not allow himself to dwell on thoughts of her, the idea of a comrade in physical torment gave him some solace.

* * *

Ella left the cramped workroom, going towards her room to retrieve the small package of fine embroidery needles she kept for fancywork. Having finished her costume-work for the day she could work on any small personal projects while the light was still good. On the way back from her room, she caught the edge of her skirt on a protruding piece of molding on the baseboard.

Clicking her tongue in annoyance, she tugged impatiently on the charcoal gray fabric, which grew taught for a moment, then tore as the sharp edge of the carved molding bit through the material. Ella hissed angrily at herself as she bent to unhook the torn skirt from the splinter. Examining the tear, she breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, it was along a seam, and could easily be repaired. Ella straightened a little too quickly, and, her head spinning and her spine protesting, she bit back a yelp of pain and slowed, resting against the wall.

Behind the tapestry she leaned against, she felt a curious shifting, heard a soft grating, and felt the slight hum of the floorboards as something behind the tapestry slid back. Ella was astonished as the solid wall behind the hanging seemed to disappear. Looking about herself, she lifted the corner of the tapestry and gaped in amazement as she beheld a low doorway leading to a dark passage that stretched like a spider's web behind the walls, where any path was swallowed by blackness.

Ella poked her head into the passage, and stepped into the dark, feeling her way to make sure she had a sure foothold on solid ground. The floor seemed to slope a little, and as she continued into the inky darkness, the tapestry fell back behind her, covering the door. At last the ground began to go down steeply, and Ella gave in to her claustrophobia, and vowed to return with a candle to light her way at some point.

As Ella came nearer the beginning of the passage, she stopped short of the tapestry, hearing voices. Through the thick weave of the wall hanging, she could vaguely make out two figures making their way down the hallway towards her. The light of the hallway pierced through the cloth, making a dim pattern of light and shadow on Ella's pale face, with it's light spattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Her gray-green eyes furtively scanned the people as they came closer, and she squinted a little, recognizing Meg as she drew near, with a man following close behind her. How would she get out of the passage, and how would she be able to explain her sudden appearance? Ella thought to wait until they had passed or disappeared before she would emerge from her hiding place. Settling back a step, she rested against the inner wall of the secret passage and waited.

"Go away Sebastien!" Meg's voice came sharply to Ella's ears, and Ella strained to quickly translate her rapidly murmured French. Ella's French was improving, but she still found it difficult at times to keep up word for word. Her eyes grew wide as she recognized the handsome young tenor, Sebastien Levasseur. "I've already told you that if my mother found out—"

"But she will not find out, _cherie_, because you will not tell her anything of this…"

"I've told you a thousand times, no!"

"And no matter how many times you answer me no, I may still ask you once again."

"Let this be the last time you ever speak of such filthy things to me again! If you ever attempt to accost me so in the future, I will ignore you and go straight to Monsieur Brigham!" The man's face twisted with distaste and rage, making it crude and grotesque, rather than handsome.

"So you'll deny me, my pretty little ballerina, and yet everyone knows you'd willingly go down onto your back for that foppish rich man!" Meg looked away sharply, tears of shame and helpless fury beginning to run down her cheeks.

"Think what you like, Sebastien, and you can go to hell for all I care," she spat, turning away from him to escape into her room. Ella bit back a scream as she saw Sebastien wrench Meg's hand away from the doorknob, spin her around, and pin her to the door, his large hand clamped over her mouth to stifle any cries for help.

"Face reality, my little chorus slut. I'm as good as it gets. Brigham's beyond your reach, and if you'll not take what I'm offering you, well, then for your own good, I'll have to give it to you." As he bent over Meg and sealed off her mouth with a filthy, slobbering kiss, his now free hand began to roam over her furiously writhing body, hitching up the skirt of her rehearsal costume inch by inch.

Meg wrested herself from his grasp, and even as he leaned heavily on her, she let out a shrill scream that echoed along the corridor and made the hairs on Ella's neck stand up. Closing her eyes for only a moment, Ella ducked out from behind the tapestry and hastily reached for Sebastien, trying not to gag as she tried to pull him away from Meg. He turned, surprised, and as he registered Ella's presence, his snarled with disgust and turned to leave. Meg crumpled against the door, choking on her sobs and re-arranging her rumpled costume. Ella, seeing that her friend was in no state to gain recompense from her molester, she flew at Sebastien, enraged. He howled in pain as her fingernails scored four even lines across his cheek, blood beading along the thin cuts. He pressed a hand to his face, then pulled it away, looking at the red smears with something akin to amazement, which abruptly darkened into anger.

"Just you wait, my little red hen. You'll pay for that, and more!" Hearing the hasty clatter and shuffle of footsteps along the corridor, and voices coming towards them, Sebastien turned and fled swiftly down the hall, leaving Ella to kneel beside Meg, checking for any injuries as her friend's frantic sobs subsided.

"Are you all right?"

"Y-yes. I will be. Oh _mon Dieu_, praise be that you came along when you did!" Meg looked up and wiped her red eyes as James Brigham rounded the corner, follower by Madame Giry and various curious stagehands and chorus members. Ella was helping Meg to stand, and Meg averted her eyes, hiding her tear-stained face, leaving Ella to do the talking.

"Is everything well? We heard a scream…" James began. Out of the corner of her eyes, Ella caught Meg's pleading look, along with a small shaking of her head.

"We are fine, Monsieur. I am sorry, but, due to the tricks of light and shadow in the corridor and Meg's ghost tales late at night, I had thought I saw the Opera Ghost. Forgive me for my foolishness. My imagination got the better of me." Ella offered a half-hearted grin, and James didn't look all too convinced at the pale, wide-eyed faces of the two girls.

"You are quite sure you're both all right?"

"Quite sure, thank you for your concern, Monsieur, but I assure you that none is necessary. Just gave ourselves a bit of a fright, is all. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll be going to bed early. Goodnight, Monsieurs, Madame…" Ella nodded to Madame Giry, James and the stagehands before she slipped into her room, dragging Meg behind her. Shutting the door, she sat Meg on her bed and rocked her like a child as the frightened girl began to sob again, the shock having worn off enough for her to give vent to her fear.

* * *

Outside the room, the stagehands had returned to their work, and Madame Giry had stared disconcertingly up and down the hallway before bidding James goodnight as she too returned to her own rooms. James stood alone for a moment, before something shining caught his eye. Kneeling, he retrieved a small package of silver needles, which he assumed were Miss Marwood's. Knocking politely, he spoke through the door.

"Miss Marwood, you seem to have dropped a package of needles here…" The door opened a crack, and Ella's face peered out at him nervously.

"Oh, thank you," she said, with overdone carelessness. "In my fright I must have dropped them." As she would have retreated back into her room, James held a hand to stay her.

"Miss Marwood, I—you know that if you ever have need of anything, of my assistance, my service, all you need to do is ask," he cleared his throat slightly, suddenly feeling that the empty hallway was overheated and closely crowded. Ella dropped her eyes to her hand, which clutched the packet of needles, feeling a faint stain of rose spreading over her cheeks for no reason she could discern.

"I realize that, and I thank you again for your kindness, Mr. Brigham," she said lowly. Biting her lip slightly, she raised her eyes to his face and gave a small smile. "I bid you goodnight."

"Goodnight, Miss Marwood," he said, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling as he smiled at her. Ella gently shut the door, and James strode off down the hall, feeling suddenly light-hearted and very much alive.

* * *

Another pair of eyes had witnessed the scene as it had unfolded, as a lone shadow had come to the end of the secret passageway, and was startled to find the doorway behind the tapestry open, entering the hiding place almost as soon as Ella had left it. A small, wry smile had lifted his lips as he'd heard Ella's excuse regarding the Opera Ghost. As the manager had finally walked off, the figure came out into the hallway and stalked off down the corridor to go about his business, which he only conducted during the silent darkness hours as the Opera slept, pausing only momentarily outside the girl's door. As he glided away on soundless footsteps, his brow darkened as he thought of what he had witnessed, and the tenor's parting words.

Maybe the girl would need his protection after all.


	5. A Promise Kept

**Diclaimer: erm****... Disclaimer: A-hem. I don't own this crap. Except for the crap I wrote.**

**A/N: The above typo is my case in point. I've been reading _Mr. Darcy Takes a Wife_ for the past two days, and darned if it isn't hilarious. It's either so bad it's good or so good it's bad, and I can't decide which. Trust that a full report and review of the book's myriad merits will be discussed on my homepage later on. Chapter 18 shocked me byNOT ending with happyhappyDarcylovin'. That's not to say there was no happyhappyDarcylovin' in Chapter 18, but usually it's consistent all the way through. The halt to the lovin' was kind of abrupt, but thankfully it resumed early on in Chapter 19. No please don't hurt me if Darcy Through the Ages takes a turn for the smutty, (at least once I'vesifted through the pesky time-travel issues and moved on to the blossoming romance between Andrea and Mr. D,) becauseI am what I read. Anyhow, this has been the major delay in me writing any updates, and tomorrow there will be a concentrated effort to update tWoT, then perhaps DTtA as well. Also: I'm sorry if this chapter is majorly long. I got hella into describing Ella's home life and childhood, just because I felt like it and ithelped me get to know her better as a character. Now I love her even more, and a major THANK-YOU goes out to the reviewers who declared Ella is not even acquainted with the likes of Mary-Sue. This is one of my major hurdles here, and I'm striving to make Ella as human as possible, and although I do tend to extoll her virtues in this chapter, trust me that she IS flawed and will face a helluva lot of conflict and angstbefore the story's done. I'll admit that this chapter is Mary-Sue-ish in it's basic plot concept, but I tried to make it interesting. Read on, enjoy, andplease continue to review!

* * *

The morning light had the softly luminous quality of a creamy pearl, and Ella closed her eyes with a sigh of contentment, feeling the warmth wash over like a benediction. Ella walked slowly down the halls of the Opera, relishing the solitude. This early in the morning, the Opera's staff and patrons were either at church, or asleep in their beds. Meg had gone with her mother and Monsieur Brigham to an early service; Ella had stayed behind, pleading a headache. She prayed she would be forgiven the white lie, for all she really wanted was peace, quiet, and the blessed privacy that was so rare at the busy Opera house. Ella clasped her small pocket Bible between her chilled hands, descending the stairs that led to the Opera's small chapel. A wraith-like shadow disappeared only moments before Ella entered the small, semi-subterranean room, and Ella failed to notice that one of the candles still smoked, as though it had been hastily doused upon her entrance. **

The light that had shone clear and white through the windowpanes that lined the hallway was transformed within the chapel; wavering and trembling like moths as the translucent beams made gorgeous patterns on the stone floor. Peacock blue, emerald green and rose-red, the great stained glass window formed bold swirls and blocks of colour, and Ella though the very air of the place seemed to be dusted with an edge of gold. She breathed deeply, and the scent of cool stone, warm candle-wax and smoke was, to her, the fragrance of holiness, of peace and absolution. Kneeling at the small altar, she lit one, then two candles, for each of her parents, not hearing the slow, steady approach of stealthy footsteps from the hallways above.

Retreating to the stone window seat, Ella sat to read her favourite Psalm, then she clasped her hands in fervent, though serene prayer. She did not know exactly what she prayed for, but she felt the tumult of her mind was somewhat soothed by the act of it. She felt that, somehow, God would know what it was she and those she loved so desperately needed to be happy, and, if He was willing, grant it. Another reason she tended to avoid the public church services was the tendency of the preachers to emphasize the brimstone of Hell and the wrath of the Almighty rather than the joy of Heaven and the love of God.

Her parents, when they had lived, had the somewhat unconventional practice of avoiding church whenever possible, and, aside from Easter, Christmas, and whenever she felt she needed it, Ella had rarely attended. Her parent's love and quiet devotion was enough to teach Ella the benefits of a Christian life, and Ella followed their pattern by expressing a gentle piety through her words and daily actions, rather than showing up reliably to church. Her father had been a shopkeeper, her mother a seamstress, and together they had had a small, but renowned milliner's shop. Ella had loved her parents dearly, and by the time they had died, her father when she was twelve and her mother when she was eighteen, she had enough to make a modest living at her sewing. The shop had been sold, as Ella had never had much of a head for figures, leaving the business to someone who could make something of it. An only child, she had always been provided for, and though her life was not affluent, it was comfortable for her humble spirit. Of course there were parts of her that gloried in the excesses affordable to the wealthy and powerful, but after she was finished with her silks and velvets and the customer was satisfied, she put away her pretense and settled happily into her life of wool and muslin. _If satin eases your mind, and you feel rich and pretty, so be it, _her mother had once said, after finding Ella playing amongst the bolts of rich fabric in the back of the shop, _but at the end of the day, no fabric can compare to love for keeping you warm._ And that was what they had had. The small family was happy, industrious, and the three had never aspired to more than they could achieve.

This lack of grand ambition had never bothered Ella. She had ambitions, sure enough, but some took her unassuming vocation of seamstress and assumed she was too lazy to strive for more glorious recognition among her fellow men. Some, like Ella, were simply content to serve others, providing a needed service, and Ella wrought a subtle kind of magic and art into her craft, and anyone who knew Ella intimately could never say she was nothing more than a sewing woman. Ella was one of those mystical beings who pass through our lives every so often, bringing with them an understated sense of the exotic. Ella had never been beyond southern England before her journey to France, but nonetheless she possessed a certain artless sparkle about her that projected both the great wisdom of age and fresh exuberance of youth. Nothing was beyond Ella's reach, and if she had wanted it, she could have the empires of the globe within her grasp. She was more than satisfied with her cozy corner of the world, however, and she contented herself with adding spark and vitality to every life she touched, whether through her acquaintance or her sewing. The oddest thing about Ella, though, was her complete and utter inability to see herself for what she was. Somewhat shy, unassuming and modest, she considered herself little more than a crippled girl with an aptitude for fancywork. She had no idea the ways in which she transfigured those around her, through her eternal optimism or her uncanny ability to make even the most homely of women noticeable, even attractive in her garments.

Perhaps this unconscious innocence was what drew people to her the most, for across the vast social and economic backgrounds of the throngs of people within London, Paris, indeed, the world over, simple purity was rare and precious. The children of the slums and the people of the streets were born into harsh lives that demanded cynicism and jaded bitterness. The idle rich, for all their luxury, were often no better, their lives ruled strictly by decorum and fashion, impressing them from the earliest age with the importance of an indifferent façade, genteel deportment and, most importantly, a lack of passion. Many in those cities lived stunted lives, and few loved fully. Ella threw herself headlong into her life with an admirable sense of excitement and childlike wonder. Every morning dawned with possibility, and every night fell with the promise of another day. Such innocence was fragile, however, and had Ella known this, she may not have thrown herself about with such naïve daring and pert idealism. Handled too roughly, her castle of spun glass would collapse, leaving her to weather the harsh reality of the world alone and unprepared.

Ella was shaken from her prayerful reverie by a shuffling at the door to the chapel. Glancing up, a swift blush of anger at the intrusion spread over her features. Rising with as much disdain as she could muster at the unexpected interruption, she set her jaw and went to step around the trespasser and make her way from the chapel. A small sound of disappointment escaped her lips as the heavy hand of Sebastien Levasseur curled around her arm, tugging her off balance. As she stumbled, she fell against him and immediately recoiled, even as he drew her closer to him. Ella fastened her eyes elsewhere, desperately seeking to hide the fear that shone glassily in her eyes.

"I said you'd pay, mam'selle, and I'm never one to break a promise. Come now, we are both honest people…wouldn't it be a shame if you didn't settle your debts? You cost me dearly, and I'm here to reckon the bill."

"I would wish to always keep my promises, Monsieur," said Ella coldly, hoping he did not hear her voice as it began to tremble. "And so it is my greatest vow that I will see you rot in Hell before I pay you anything," again she tried to loosen his grip, but to no avail.

"Now, then…Ella, is it?"

"Miss Marwood," she hissed crisply, grunting slightly as she strained away from him.

"Ella," he continued inexorably, "that is not very charitable. And as I've already said, you cost me dearly. Now let's try this again, just to review our…situation." His voice was dangerously low and smooth. "I stand between you and the doorway. Beyond that doorway is a flight of stairs, which I doubt you could ascend swiftly, should the need arise, due to the state of your foot." He held her against him, and pressed his lips to her ear, and Ella shuddered, sickened by the hot, moist rush of his fevered breath as he spoke. Her heart beat like a frightened rabbit's, and Ella felt as though it would burst through her ribs to lie pulsing and bleeding on the floor of the befouled sanctuary of the chapel. Ella heard the sounds of soft, desperate weeping and useless, mewing cries for help, and realized they were drawn from her own lips.

"No, no, no…" the word was repeated, punctuated by wretched gasps of tormented agony as Ella writhed in the grip of her captor.

"Perhaps that is what I like best about you, Ella. You cannot run from me, and you cannot hide," he chuckled as though he found the circumstances exceedingly diverting, and Ella's head whirled as she grasped how infinitely sick and depraved the man was. His hands managed to imprison and assail her at the same time. Even as Ella felt the thick curtain of hot tears wash over her cheeks, she was certain that no amount of bathing could rid her skin of the feeling of his flesh against hers, and the creeping filth that now pervaded the very air she breathed. "Everyone is either abed or at church, and there is no one to hear you scream."

But scream she did. Ella gave one final cry of despair that echoed and then faded down the empty halls of the Opera. Sebastien laughed at her terror, tightening his grip infinitesimally as though to cement his claim upon her, and lowered his face to a hair's breadth from hers.

"See you in Hell, Miss Marwood," he breathed, clamping his mouth over hers. Ella felt she would never breath properly again, and the Sebastien's suffocating presence robbed her of her ability to struggle. Ella gave in to her fatigue, and even as she surrendered to her horrible fate, she felt a sudden lifting, a peaceful freedom from the unwanted pressure of Sebastien's hands and body. Through her hazy vision, she realized she lay on the floor, and her loosened hairpins scattered across the stones with a musical sound.Ella barely registered a second pair of feet in her line of vision before Sebastien's blood-curdling scream split the silence and everything went black.


	6. Ashes to Ashes

**A/N Okay, this would have been posted sooner, except I've been goofing off. It's spring break, y'all! I went and saw Bride and Prejudice last night then spent about 2 hours posting on the boards for the movie on snorts Heh. If you read my A/N as if you were hopped up on cough syrup or something, then you can get my frame of mind right now. I'm not on drugs, but my tone of voice is, trust me. Bollywoooooooood! beams happily I'm sorry, but Bollywood AND Pride and Prejudice definitely takes precedence over updating. Also, and here's something I'm more than a little ashamed of…I kind of…lost…a character. I had an extended conversation with Ruth over this, and she eventually prodded me to find Sebastien. (Y'see, I wasn't sure where I'd left him or what exactly had happened to him.) So much for the author's omnipotent power. I couldn't honestly remember where I'd put Sebastien, and if I DID find him, I wasn't sure where I'd find him or what to do with him. In spite of Ruth's re-assurance, I doubt this happens to authors as frequently as she would have me believe. When was the last time one of YOU lost one of YOUR OC's? Yeah, I thought so. In leaving Sebastien's fate up to your imaginations at the end of chapter five, I kind of stopped caring about what happened to him in chapter 6. By the time I realized he needed a plausible reason to disappear or come back or whatever he does (as I type this I have yet to type the ending because I still don't really know what happens to him,) I'd lost him. Anyhow, I'll leave it up to your fertile little imaginations to make up for my blunders. Read on and you'll see what happens to Sebastien. (I had a list of options, most of which were scratched because they would move certain elements of the plot leaps and bounds ahead, faster than I want them to move.) I still need to keep some things up my sleeve, and through my love of combining the element of surprise along with a slow and steady building of the plot, I enjoy moments where the reader goes "Whoa!" then two seconds later: "Now WHY the hell didn't I see that coming?" Now I flatter myself that I am adept enough at layering my plot so that the surprises…surprise, but don't seem unexpected somehow. In actual fact, I probably bore people by drawing out certain things and then when stuff DOES happen the reader goes: "FINALLY. I've known that Erik was going to come out of the closet for the last eight chapters! No one can wear that much taffeta and be straight!" (He doesn't, btw. This is totally hypothetical, and to illustrate the point.)**

**But anyway, you all have waited so long and patiently for this one, considering the awful cliffhanger I left you with (you all must hate me by now) that this chappie is fairly long in comparison, and chock full of +sing-song voice+ DRAMA! Heh. Enjoy. (And for the record, although we HAVE caught fleeting glimpses of Erik, we don't formally meet him for a while yet. Don't get your hopes up. I have other plot-points to establish. I'm actually not sure when or where he'll show up. I am totally writing this story by the seat of my pants, as it were.)**

* * *

Ella heard a voice through the gray fog that lay over her thoughts, like soft music from the next room, or laughter from far down the corridor, muffled by space and walls. She opened her eyes, but frowned slightly, as they seemed to remain shut. It took a moment for her shaken wits to realize that a soft, cool cloth lay across her eyes. As it would have taken more strength than she had to lift a hand to remove the cloth, she lay still and allowed her senses to come back into focus and function, one by one. First was sound, but even that was muffled and garbled, as though she were underwater. Next came sight, but as she couldn't see beyond the cloth there was little she could gather from that. Feeling returned to her limbs with a rosy tingle, her skin felt cool and shivery, and she was sure that gooseflesh had broken out on her body. Smell then returned, and she inhaled a mingled array of scents. The dusty, damp aroma of the cloth, the sharp scent that told her someone nearby had uncorked a vial of smelling salts, and the tangy, peppery fragrance of pipe tobacco smoke.

"Take that vile pipe out of this room," spoke an austere voice, close to her head. There was a murmured assent, retreating footsteps, and the soft swish and thud of a door being shut. Ella stirred, gathering her strength and attempting to sit up from her horizontal position on a soft, narrow cot. A firm hand landed on her shoulder and pressed her back.

"Lie still, my dear," said the same voice; and a moment later, the cloth was removed and Ella blinked blearily into Madame Giry's sharp-boned face. Although the older woman's mouth was an unrelenting line and her face betrayed no sudden shift of emotion, her dark eyes softened and she sent a silent prayer heavenwards that the girl appeared to be in no ill health. The subtly spoken endearment was not lost on either her or Meg, who sat looking concerned on the other side of the bed. Meg glanced at her mother in surprise, for affectionate words were scarce in the strict confines of the Giry family. Meg knew her mother loved her, but she seldom expected to hear her say it.

Ella said nothing and offered a frail smile to both Girys as the cloth was refolded and laid upon her brow. Ella's expression faltered for a moment, and then her gray-green eyes grew wide. The sense of taste had returned, and now the foul flavor of Sebastien's mouth and tongue invaded her mind and blotted out all else. She swallowed heavily, then made a frantic gesture. Meg swiftly understood and dipped a hand under Ella's bed, retrieving the chamber pot and holding it towards her friend rather daintily, a worried yet slightly squeamish expression upon her face.

Ella only had a moment to note that Madame Giry had pulled her loose hair from her face and held back the long, dark red tresses, as Ella became sick in the chamber pot. She clutched weakly at the basin until her body shuddered with dry heaves, her stomach having lost all it held. She waited until she was sure there was nothing left, then collapsed back upon her back, tears streaming down her face. Madame Giry brought forth a cool glass of water for Ella to sip and rinse her mouth with, and she patted Ella's brow with the cloth. Ella's frantic breathing spasms gradually eased, and she coughed slightly as the roughness in her throat. Madame Giry's thin hands patted her hair and stroked her forehead, which had broken out in a cold, clammy sweat.

"There, child. Do not feel the need to speak of it now." Ella looked confusedly at Madame Giry, then Meg, and she saw Meg's pitying gaze fall on her cheek. Raising a hand to her face, she only now felt the stinging pain of four scratched lines across her skin. She hissed a sharp intake of breath and snatched her own hand away, red blots of pain blurring through her mind. Wound for wound, scratch for scratch, Sebastien had promised to repay her and take what he'd felt was his due. She glanced at Meg, fear of the unknown rampant in her eyes.

"Did…?" The one word quavered on her lips and Ella could not continue with her question. Meg pressed her lips together, fully understanding the full import of Ella's question.

"No," she said quickly, reassuringly. "No. He was gone when we found you." Ella blushed, realizing that it was obvious to Meg at least what had occurred, what had almost occurred. Ella strained, trying to remember beyond those last moments before she had lost consciousness.

"But…you were there…I heard him screaming," Ella faltered. Meg shook her head slowly, as though she were speaking to a confused child.

"No, Ella. You were alone when we found you. We came back form church and you were nowhere to be seen. I thought to look for you in the chapel and that was when we saw…"

"But someone came, when I cried out…"

"Ella, you and Sebastien were the only ones up and about at that time. Everyone else who lives at the Opera came with us to church or was at home. There was no one."

"There was…there was…I saw, a man came into the chapel…"

"You must rest," said Madame Giry brusquely. "You have been through a trying time and your memory is playing tricks on you. You were alone." She spoke with such ringing finality in her words that Ella dared not speak again. Madame Giry rose and went across the room to wring out the cloth in the wash basin. Ella glanced at Meg and her friend's blonde head leaned over her to listen.

"Meg," Ella whispered. "If I was alone, undefiled, and Sebastien was gone…what would have made him go? I'm sure I saw…"

"'Tis best not to speak of these things, Ella. You've been through much, and I fear it is my fault, for had we made Sebastien's character, his threats, widely known, this never could have happened…"

"Meg, dear, none of this is your fault, and don't change the subject. You _know_ I speak the truth." Ella waited, and Meg hesitated, glancing at her mother's back.

"What did you see?" she breathed.

"A man…I'm sure of it. Only his feet, but there was definitely someone else there, and Sebastien screamed…" Ella shuddered to remember. Meg paled slightly, and averted her eyes from Ella's earnest gaze. "What?" asked Ella. "What is it Meg? Meg, you know something isn't right. Tell me. Meg, tell me," Ella's voice had a hard edge to it that Meg hadn't heard before, one that Meg dared not disobey. Ella's voice was no longer the voice of a timid girl, but the voice of a woman who had known fear beyond everything else. Meg had tasted this fear in her previous encounter with Sebastien, and knew that something intrinsic within Ella had changed forever. A fire hardens soft clay, making it stronger, so had Ella's fear empowered a voice within her that cried for retribution, strength and unyielding honor.

"The chapel…" Meg spoke in English, which her mother had difficulty understanding, in case she overheard. "It is said that the chapel was frequented by the Opera Ghost in years past. It was there that Christine and I…" Madame Giry heard Christine's name spoken and had little trouble in guessing the subject of their discourse.

"Meg! Leave the poor girl be and let's have none of your hysterical stories of the Opera Ghost. It has been nigh upon two years since anyone has heard or seen anything of him and there is nothing to be gained from you endless prattling. Now off you go to let Ella take her ease." Meg stood, rather reluctantly, and went to the door. Madame Giry leaned over Ella, checking her forehead for a fever and finding none, gladly seeing Ella's colouring return to her cheeks. "Meg, leave us for a moment." Madame Giry sat on a low stool by Ella's bedside, and Meg silently left, shutting the door behind her, and Ella again smelled traces of tobacco on the air, wafting in from the hallway.

"Ella," began Madame Giry. "My daughter knows little of what she speaks of the Opera Ghost. Trust me when I say that if you did see anything in the chapel, there is little good to be done if you should begin spreading rumors of his return. The Opera Ghost…I knew him, in former days." Ella's open-mouthed shock forced her to remain silent, waiting for Madame to continue. "The story of his life here is long and not worth telling to you. In any case, it is not my story to tell. I have only told it once before, to the Vicomte de Chagny, who is now Christine Daae's husband; and that was a matter of life or death, as it turned out. Believe me, my dear, you need not fear the Opera Ghost if he has returned. I doubt he ever left the Opera Populaire. Not for very long stretches of time, in any case. Whatever painful memories occurred here, this is his home, and at times, I suppose, a home was all he had. From what Meg tells me had occurred between you and Monsieur Levasseur, and what you say you saw in the chapel, it sounds as if the Opera Ghost has decided to befriend you, in a manner of speaking. Do not expect him to show himself, nor contact you, for I doubt he would wish to for attachments with anyone after the life he has led. He has been scorned and cast out wherever he has happened to show himself, due to the unfortunate state of his being."

"What is wrong with him?"

"His face, Ella…his face. I saw it myself, years ago, long, long ago, and yet I cannot forget the sight of it. Deformed from birth, all his life he has been made to suffer for what God had given him. And yet, for all his face was a horror, his mind is a miracle."

"His mind?"

"A genius, Ella. A composer, engineer, mathematician, musician, he excelled at all manner of things. There is a web, a network of passages behind walls and under floors, through which he moves about the Opera house with the greatest of skill and ease."

"There is a door, I found…a passage, leading into the darkness, I followed it part way down the night Meg was…propositioned by Sebastien. I do not know where it leads…"

"I would suppose it leads to the Opera Ghost's lair, below the Opera, in the fifth cellar. I know of its existence and yet I have never ventured there and I am loathe to go too far underground. After the events surrounding his supposed disappearance, and the discovery of his lair, everything was left untouched after the police had tried to investigate. Christine insisted it was left as it was and undisturbed. All the known passages leading to the place were blocked, but I am sure there were several passages that no one but he knows about. I would suggest that you never return to that passageway, Ella. I doubt the Opera Ghost would look too kindly on visitors, even if Providence delivered you at his hands." Madame Giry, having said all she wished too, for the time being, stood, and went to the door. Turning upon the threshold of the small room, she looked at Ella, and spoke in an odd tone of voice, as though she were testing Ella.

"Monsieur Brigham has been very concerned about you, Ella. He asked to be admitted to see you once you were awake and well enough to entertain a visitor. May I show him in?" Ella frowned in slight confusion, then nodded slowly.

"Indeed you may, and please, bid Meg return here, I wish to speak further with her on certain matters." Madame Giry nodded, her countenance betraying neither approval nor disapproval of Ella's choice. She left the room, and a moment later, James stood in the open doorway. His eyes fell upon Ella's prone figure, and the light from the hallway threw his face into silhouette, making it impossible for Ella to read his reaction. He cleared his throat and paused, fumbling for a moment, then, he glanced to the side and stepped back, politely allowing Meg to enter ahead of him.

Leaving the door open so as not to incite talk of impropriety, James cautious approached Ella's bedside even as Meg threw herself down beside Ella with rambunctious abandon. Meg looked as though she would like to continue her conversation from earlier with Ella, but she glanced at James out of the corner of her eye and immediately sat up straighter, meticulously arranging her skirt and patting her pinned-up hair unconsciously. James cleared his throat again, and shuffled his feet somewhat, as if unsure how to begin. Ella gazed at him, half out of curiosity as to his anxiety, and half out of mute patience as she waited for him to gather his thoughts.

"Miss…Miss Marwood…I trust that you are feeling better?"

"I am, thank you."

"I am very pleased to hear it," he paused again. "Eh…well, I would just like you to know that I hold myself entirely responsible for what has occurred, and feel I owe you…and Mademoiselle Giry," he tacked on Meg, as if her assaulting at the hands of Sebastien was an afterthought, "the most fervent…apology. Had I more thoroughly studied Monsieur Levasseur's character, I should have seen that he was unfit for me to have in my employ and none of this unfortunate and grievous business would have taken place. I assure you, that as soon as Monsieur Levasseur is located, he shall be dealt with accordingly."

"Sebastien cannot be found?" It was Meg who spoke, curiosity and adoration in her face.

"Ah…yes…it seems he fled the chapel and its immediate domain after what happened, no doubt afraid to be caught or feeling ashamed of what he'd done. Although it would surprise me if the bastard had any feelings at all…" James flushed a rosy pink as he realized what had left his mouth without thinking. "I do beg your pardon, mademoiselles. I apologize for my strong and inappropriate language."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Brigham," said Ella, her wits returning now that the shock and fatigue of what had occurred was wearing off. "After the events of this morning, you may trust that your words have had the least negative effect on my delicate sensibilities," she spoke with a small smile. As her bright green eyes met those of Mr. Brigham, his own face broke into a wide grin, evidently pleased to see that she was in no ill humour and relatively unharmed.

"Well, I am very gratified to find you in such good spirits, considering your recent ordeal, and thank God nothing worse befell you." James began to blush again as he considered what that something 'worse' would have been.

"Indeed, we are all grateful that Ella is safe," said Meg, trying not to pout a little inside as she recalled that she had recently been in similar circumstances. In all fairness, she had concealed the truth of that encounter long after it had ended, thus losing most of the sympathies that were now being awarded to Ella. Perhaps, she considered, it would have been better to tell Mr. Brigham what had actually happened right after the fact, and then he may have not only brought Sebastien to justice, but his consolations would have been conferred upon herself instead of Ella. Well, things were certainly clearer in hindsight, and Meg wasn't so foolish as to let James' unwitting snub go to her head and fester into envy and malice. She had felt a slight twinge of jealousy perhaps as she had watched James scoop Ella into his arms and carry her to her room after they had discovered her senseless in the chapel; but her good sense prevailed and she had no desire to be in Ella's shoes for the time being, considering what Ella had been through.

"Indeed," murmured James, his expression blankly unreadable. He assembled his wits in a moment, and bid good day to both girls as he quitted the room. Meg and Ella immediately fell into hushed and fervid conversation, which ended only as Ella fell into an exhausted sleep, her mind beginning to whirl as the full implications of what had happened that day fell upon her. Meg brought some cool healing salve, and she gently applied it to the abrasions on Ella's cheek, then she went to seek her mother, leaving Ella asleep, in peace at last.

James stood alone within his office at the Opera Populaire; his jaw clenched, his fists closed, and his eyes fell shut in an effort to calm the surge of anger her felt within him. A sigh of frustration issued from his throat as he began to pace. His eyes roved over the office, as though searching for a means to an end. His gaze finally fell on the ornate ceremonial sword that hung behind his desk, in an elaborate scabbard. He grasped its handle and wrenched it from its resting-place, the ringing whine of steel friction echoing slightly around the room. He tested the sword's weight in his grip, his glare traveling coldly along the sharp edge, with spots of white light dancing along its heavily polished blade. He strode to the door of the office and opened the door with a bang, the heels of his boots thudding heavily along the corridor as he made his way to Levasseur's small apartments within the opera house.

James rounded the corner, sword in hand, and stopped short as Madame Giry stood suddenly before him. James suppressed a shudder as he noted how the woman seemed to moves soundlessly about the Opera. Her stern gaze glanced indifferently at the sword in his hand, then she tilted her head only slightly in his direction as she spoke, impeding his path.

"You will gain nothing by that, Monsieur. What Monsieur Levasseur has done has been done by many generations of men to many generations of girls, and your attempts at gaining recompense for his crime will not prevent it from happening in the future, nor erase what has happened in the past."

"Do you condone his behaviour, Madame?" His voice was low, with an edge of frost that would have chilled anyone but Madame Giry's implacable fortitude.

"Indeed I do not, Monsieur. My own Meg was victim to his foul plots, and often I would wish I could run him through the heart for what he has doubtless done to countless girls in the past. However, after much consideration, I see how little good it would do to act violently upon impulse."

"Little good? Little good to rid society of such a blemish? He is a boil to be lanced from the face of humanity upon the tip of my sword, Madame, and every moment you hesitate to give me leave to pass the blackguard gains distance from us."

"He has not fled, Monsieur."

"Very well, then, I shall deal with him directly."

"He has been dealt with, Monsieur." Madame Giry's cryptic words hung in the air as candle smoke, and there was a moment of loaded silence between them.

"Then Monsieur Levasseur is dead?"

"I do not know, truly Monsieur, I do not. I myself have just return from an inspection of his rooms," with a mirthless smile, she flashed the small dagger that had been in her palm. James glanced at it, then leaned his back against the wall, more relaxed as Madame Giry had given him assurance, however vague, that Sebastien was not to escape paying for his misdeeds. A small chuckle escaped his lips.

"A hypocrite, Madame, to warn me not to kill where your intentions led you to attempt the same." That same cheerless smile tilted the woman's lips as she replied.

"Ah, Monsieur, because I sought the rogue with a blade in my grasp does not mean I likewise sought his life. It seems to me that much can be done to wound a man without killing him. A life in pain is better punishment than sending him early on his way to Hades. Why not allow him his full portion of earthly torment?"

"If you did plan to wound him yet not take his life, I pray you tell me what your intent was upon his person?"

"To disengage that part of him which first got us into all this grief." It took a moment for James to digest Madame Giry's words, and then he involuntarily half-turned away from the dark, wiry woman who knew so much and held a knife, as if to protect his own parts, virtuous in comparison to Sebastien's depraved appetites.

James let his sword rest against the floor, and he turned his face to Madame Giry, who, for a moment only, saw the fleeting expression of pain and vengeance in his eyes. As to the cause of such desperation that would lead a man to kill, one could only conjecture. Surely the bruised but intact honour of a crippled seamstress was no reason for her employer to commit murder upon one of his more illustrious employees. Madame Giry thought it best not to question the manager of the Opera, whose practical and business-like nature obviously held an enormous capacity for thinly veiled passion and sensitivity. Madame Giry let out a slight sigh. Was she ever to meet with a man involved in the arts who did not hold some kind of violent streak, no matter how genteel they appeared?

Madame Giry cleared her throat and offered a thin, sealed letter to Monsieur Brigham.

"I found this in his quarters while I searched for him. It is addressed to you." James turned the letter over in his hands, frowning at the seal.

"It appears as though there are scorch marks on the paper, and the wax is blackened, as though someone tried to burn it."

"We may not know the particulars of the letter's composition until you have perused the contents, Monsieur," said Madame Giry, he expression stony. She did not add that the mark upon the seal had caused her to go cold all over. It had been she who had held the letter over a candle to melt the impression of the seal from the letter, leaving a formless blob of sealing wax. She watched intently as James ripped open the letter, and the hairs on the back of her neck raised as she recognized the heavy-handed, sharp-edged black scrawl she had seen so often before. She trained her eyes on James' face, which betrayed no emotion, no identification of the author of the letter. The young manager had never before received a communiqué from the Opera Ghost, so he assumed the writer to be Levasseur.

The letter ran as follows:

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_You may trust, good monsieur, that my presence around the opera shall be quite limited in future. In fact, you may depend upon it that I shall never be seen again, considering my actions in this morning's predicament. Monsieur Levasseur shall not be seen or heard from again. He has and will continue to pay for his crimes, should the fires of Hell perform their purpose._

_I remain yours..._

James swore as he noted that the signature on the letter was blotted and blurred, rendering it unreadable.

"I beg your pardon, Madame Giry. But this sounds a little lofty for Levasseur. How may one even be sure that he is either jailed or in immortal agony?"

"Hell is not only for the dead, Monsieur," said Madame Giry suddenly, plucking the letter from his hands and disappearing through the door into Levasseur's empty rooms. James followed close on her heels, only to come upon Madame Giry as she held the letter over the glowing coals of the fire in the small grate.

"Madame Giry, I must protest. Why do you burn this letter? If Levasseur is ever caught alive, we may need this as evidence to bring him to justice."

"This letter will do you no good, Monsieur, beyond the knowledge of its contents. The author could not be sworn upon to testify in court."

"Testify? In court? Levasseur's word in court is as good as the foul pestilence that he breathes; less, even."

"Indeed, Monsieur," agreed Madame Giry simply, watching as the edges of the letter curled in the flames, and the writing stood out in red swirls and blots, like a firebrand, only a moment before it crumbled into gray ash and died with a wisp of smoke. Brigham's ruminations on the picture presented by the thought of Monsieur Levasseur facing a judge, and ultimately death by all manner of horrendous and painful torture, gave him sufficient good humour to dispel any lingering questions he had for Madame Giry and the odd letter. A good thing, too, for the woman was disinclined to speak of it further, and she soon quitted the room in silence, leaving Monsieur Brigham to his reflections.


	7. Not What They Seem

**A/N: Sorry I've been gone so long. I've been working all week and grad is coming up. Hopefully this gets my writer's block unlodged.**

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"Come in," James called without raising his head from the paper scattered across his desk. The knock that had sounded at his door he thought to be a stagehand he had called upon so he could reprimand him for drinking backstage during a performance. "Your job, such as it is, is in great peril due to your unsavoury habits…" His voice was cold enough to chill the sun. The heavy slither of skirts whispered across the carpet, then stopped abruptly with a small cry of alarm and despair. He looked up; a half-dazed smiled lighting his face as he leapt to his feet. Horror rushed over him as he realized the import of his words, as a sheaf of papers had slipped from Ella's inert, bloodless hands, fluttering to the floor with a hushed rustle. James flushed slightly at his rudeness. "Forgive me, Miss Marwood. I thought…you see I…please, have a seat." He ushered her into a chair, as she had gone quite pale. "_Your_ job is quite secure, let me assure you. I had thought you were someone else entirely. I do beg your pardon."

"Think nothing of it," said Ella, feeling returning to her limbs in a rosy tingling rush. Ella laughed lightly, nervously ashamed of her own want of composure. "Ehm…" she half-stood, turning to retrieve the papers she had dropped.

"Oh, please, allow me." James knelt to get the papers, and Ella sank back into her chair with relief, as the weakness in her knees had yet to fully abate. James handed the gathered documents to her, which she received with murmured thanks, ignoring the warm golden path across her skin as his fingers brushed against hers. She cleared her throat, then, after a moment, handed them back to James for his perusal, where he still knelt beside her chair.

"Since Madame Fortier broke her leg on the back steps of the Opera, I thought I might…I…I had some ideas for next month's production of Smetana's _The Bartered Bride_. I know it's mostly simple peasant costumes, but I thought I could do something to brighten them up, perhaps. I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds, as I am only Madame's assistant. I am sure once she returns…" Ella trailed off, uneasily, unsure what to say next.

"These are marvelous!" said Mr. Brigham effusively, shuffling through the stack. "Indeed, Miss Marwood, Madame Fortier has expressed a wish to not continue her work here at the Opera. She has been with us nigh upon twenty years, and it's high time she retired. I'm giving her some money with which she may live on quite comfortably, for her extensive, hard work at the Opera. This means, Miss Marwood, that I'm placing you in command of the entire costuming department. All principle costume design will be yours, and if you like, we may hire you an assistant."

Ella was struck dumb by this news. She stared uncomprehendingly at James, her mouth open in shock, her head slowly shaking from side to side. Her jade-green eyes peered into his dark brown ones, searching for any hint that this might be a cruel joke. Maybe she ought to pinch herself, for this must be a dream; but if it was, did she want to wake up?

Neither of the two heard the door to the office behind them open a crack, for just then, James spoke again.

"Say something. Anything. Say yes and make me the happiest man on earth," he said with a wide, endearing grin and an undercurrent of laughter in his deep voice. Ella smiled shyly. He was sometimes like a great fluffy puppy, all careless vitality and fun.

"I…it's just all so fast! Are you certain?"

"More certain than I've ever been before in my life."

"I…then…yes! Of course, I will. I'd be happy to…oh! Won't Meg just be thrilled to pieces and proud of me?" James laughed with a little disbelief, again concealing the sound of the door closing behind them with a muffled click.

"Miss Marwood, for once be proud of yourself! You earned this promotion, fair and square!"

"I just…I don't know what to say, other than thank you, Mr. Brigham."

"Please, call me James. We are friends, aren't we?"

"Well, I, yes. Yes. Thank you…James."

"You're welcome…" James stood, and Ella stood as well, grinning from ear to ear, a joyous bonfire blazing in her eyes. Without a word, she left the office, positively vibrating with happiness and excitement. She shut the door behind her, and James' eyes lingered on the spot her face had last occupied before it disappeared into the hallway.

"…Ella," he murmured softly to himself.

"Meg! Meg, where are you? You'll never guess what just…" Ella burst into the room she shared with Meg, only to find her friend slumped despondently over her pillow, sobbing wretchedly. "Meg, dearest, whatever's the matter?" Maternal instinct took over, and Ella's news took a backseat to Meg's heartache.

"Don't you touch me," growled Meg from the depths of her pillow, and Ella snatched back the comforting hand that had gone to rest on Meg's shoulder.

"What on earth has happened?"

"I'm sure you know well enough," spat Meg bitterly, although it was a trifle difficult to sound truly venomous when her tear-streaked face was buried in her arms.

"I'm sure I don't…please, tell me what had you so upset."

"It's _you_, you unfeeling, selfish, cruel witch! You and that, that _bastard._"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forgive me," said Meg icily, sitting up and hiccupping with great poise. "I have not yet congratulated you on your good news."

"My…good news? How did you…but what?"

"I might ask to be your bridesmaid, but it would be in poor taste seeing as I'd be more likely to scratch your little green eyes out than place your veil."

"Excuse me, why would I need a bridesmaid?"

"Because you're to be the future Mrs. James Brigham, that's why! Why are you so cruel as to force me to repeat those loathsome words when you must know that the truth of them kills me?"

Ella was silent for a full minute before she spoke.

"I have no idea what you mean. Truly, Meg, I am not engaged to anyone, least of all my employer! Where on earth did you get such an idea?"

"But I _saw_ you! The pair of you, in his office. If there's another explanation for a man to be on his knees, gazing into your eyes and beseeching you to make him the happiest man on earth, I'll gladly hear it!"

"Oh! Meg! Meg! Dear, funny little Meg! How wrong you are! Dearest," Ella threw her arms around Meg with a gay little laugh. "How worried I was for a moment! I'm not going to marry Mr. Brigham. He never asked me to and let me assure you he has no designs on me, nor I on him! What you took to be a marriage proposal was him offering me a promotion. I'm to design all the costumes and oversee the whole costume-making sphere!"

It was Meg's turn to be speechless for a moment.

"Oh my…heavens! Ella, I'm so glad! _You _know why! So…you're not to marry James?"

"Not in the slightest," said Ella with a fond little smile. "You dear, silly, love-struck goose of a girl! How could you believe me capable of such a blind, foolish, irrational and uncaring thing as that?"

"Oh, I don't know! I never stay around long enough to figure things out. I read a great many books by their covers and suffer greatly for it. And a promotion! Oh Ella, I'm so happy for you! This surely makes up for what happened with—does it pain you to speak of it?" Meg switched gears worriedly, wrapping her arms around Ella.

"No," said Ella with a sigh, patting Meg's hand. "No, dear." She shook her head, willing away the unsettling memories of what had happened only a few weeks earlier.

Day by day it became easier to go about her business, but she still trembled to go about the Opera house alone, even in daylight. Daylight had not protected her, nor had the house of God. If her prayers for deliverance had been answered, it had been from an unknown source. Her memories became more and more unclear as time went on, and she herself could barely distinguish the facts as she recalled them from the rumours swirling about backstage. _The Phantom had returned_, they said. _The Angel had returned. Perhaps, Phantom or Angel, he is the undying, the supernatural._

_He lives on…immortal._


	8. Beyond the Tapestry

Disclaimer: I am a poor student and own nothing but my ego. (And considerable talent, wit,brains, and beauty! Gentlemen, she's single!)

A/N:(this A/N was originally intended for my 12th Night fic, but I have to put that entire fic on the shelf until I find those pages of dialogue, which I found, made a great start on the chapter, then lost, so yeah, its going nowhere.) This update would have come sooner but my mum was in hospital for a few days, and I've been dividing my time between helping her recuperate, working almost full-time, preparing for university, and packing for a trip to New York City for a few days. (ETA: went to NYC, was fantastic, moved out, am now attending university.) Anyhoo, yes, yes, I know I've been practically dead, but I have many excuses! A) It's summer. B) I'm working practically full-time (30-40 hrs/week) and whenever I'm not working I'm doing laundry, cleaning my house, trying to get in touch with the university (being very unresponsive to my questions,) and trying to have a social life. Plus I just got my laptop in the mail so I'm finally able to play the Sims 2. Hooray! I got the Uni exp. Pack too, but I'm getting a feel for the first version before I install the expansion. Also my keyboard and mouse on my laptop are being temperamental as are my graphics drivers so I'm going to have my computer-savvy uncle have a crack at it and I also cannot get the wireless internet connection to work. It knows the connection is there, and everything seems to be in working order, but feh, she just won't run. This update also took me a little longer because after I'd written a couple of paragraphs I started screwing around with photobucket and the potterpuffs LJ and now I have oodles of funny new icons! Check out Potter Puffs, if you are a fan of HP and have not clicked the banner I have posted for it at the top of my homepage.Rathertongue-in-cheek, but cute. I was pleasantly surprised, because while I enjoy the series, I'm not hardcore or anything. I still have to read OotP and HBP, but I know what happens already so I'm in no hurry. Working on a Bronte right now. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. It's pretty good, and I think I would recommend it. It's my favourite of the Bronte sister's work right now. I also read The Great Gatsby in all of two days and liked it too. Except when Gatsby got murdered. And Daisy turned out to be a heartless bitch. And who cares about Jordan Baker, I mean, at all, as a character? No one, that's who. And who the hell kills the main (and utterly innocent and delectable) character? The fucking TITLE CHARACTER! The killing is no. Shut up, Romeo and Juliet. Shut up.

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Ella lay awake in her bed, unable to sleep, tossing and turning in frustration. Earlier, she had drawn a design for a costume in the Opera Populaire's upcoming production of Berlioz's "Béatrice et Bénédict" for Meg, who was both dancing and singing the role of Hero. Ella had originally planned to have Meg clothed entirely in white and shades of pale pink, denoting Hero's chaste spirit, but after much thought and agony, Ella knew she could not possibly dress Meg in such washed out colours on stage. While they may look delicate and pretty up close, she knew she needed something bright and eye-catching that would wear well, allowing much movement on Meg's part. Ella had searched the storeroom in vain for a bolt of cloth with just the right colour, weight and texture. Ella had searched throughout the Opera's massive store of costumes from previous performances, and yet nothing seemed to capture Meg's sheer brilliance and Hero's quiet vivacity.

Biting her lip, Ella stared at the ceiling, then closed her eyes; but rather than try and sleep, she focused on mentally taking stock of all her sewing supplies. Stacked in a closet at one end of the large, bright and airy workroom she had been moved to as a part of her new status, lay dozens of bolts of bright new cloth. Ella had insisted she could make do very well with the Opera's old supplies and knew she could make the old dresses over to match whatever styles were required; but James had insisted she have no end of fresh materials to work with.

She hadn't looked there yet. Ella had promised herself she would try to use the older scraps of fabric up first, putting off even looking at the lovely new weaves. But now she could wait no longer. She knew she must find something for Meg's costume so the sewing girls assigned to help her would be able to make up the newspaper pattern pieces tomorrow.

Ella pulled on her tattered woolen dressing gown over her nightdress and quietly lit a candle from the banked embers which glowed a dull red in the small grate of the fireplace in the room she shared with Meg. She slipped out of the room and down the hall, her feet, encased in heavy woolen socks, muffling her steps as she walked crookedly down the passage. In her haste she had forgotten her special shoes, but she hoped not to meet anyone on her way to or from her workroom. She didn't expect to, at this time of night. She fished the key out of her pocket and slid it into the lock, turning it with a tinny clank, glancing around, hoping she hadn't woken anyone.

Entering the room, which was filled with bright blue moonlight from the full sphere that hung low over the black spires and rooftops of Paris, Ella set her candle on the worktable and turned to the cabinet. Steeling herself, holding her breath, she grasped the carved brass knob and tugged at the heavy oak door.

Her breath expelled in a sigh of delight, Ella allowed her eyes to roam freely over the mounds of colours and sheens, not daring—yet—to touch the fine bolts of cloth. After a full five minutes in rapt silence, Ella reached out a tentative finger to touch the corner of a bit of blue silk. A trembling little sound of pure pleasure escaped Ella's lips, and she checked herself only a moment before she cried aloud with joy.

As her gaze fell on a bolt near the top of the large cabinet, Ella's heartbeat stilled and her mouth hung open slightly.

"That's it," she whispered. "It's perfect…" She reached upwards and gently took down the bolt of apple-green satin. She could see the costume now, in her mind, as if Meg wore it before her very eyes. Green, the colour of spring and new life…to showcase Hero's fresh and unspoilt beauty, while at the same time setting off the blue of Meg's eyes, the gold of her hair, and the rose and cream of her fair face. A simple style, with fresh flowers pinned to her hem and décolletage and blossoms in her hair and wound around her neck and arms like bright jewels.

Taking a bit of tailor's chalk from her workbox and her small silver scissors, Ella carefully marked off a tiny scrap of the satin, not wanting to waste any, and cut it off to take back to her room to show Meg tomorrow morning, as soon as she awoke. Folding the bit of cloth into her palm, Ella took up her candle and paused to gaze contentedly about her workroom, listening to the sounds of the city: a dog barking in the distance, the rattle of a passing coach, friends calling softly out windows to one another, laughter of those who had attended a late-night review or play somewhere else in the theatre district and were finishing their evening with a nightcap, the plaintive voice of a lonesome lover, singing of his beloved gone away across the sea; for Paris was not silent, even in its sleep. Ella had found that the city only grew silent and stopped in moments when something momentous occurred, which was often, and yet rarely noted by those going about their daily lives. Too often did the citizens of that fine old township step over, on, or around those beauteous moments of sheer magic as they scurried to the baker, the butcher, the apothecary, the bookshop, the café on the corner; and in the rushing, hectic pace which was necessary to sustain life, the reasons to sustain such an existence were lost or simply forgotten.

"Don't go waxing sentimental now, Ella," she chided herself in a soft voice, smiling gently as she shut and locked the door behind her with a heavy iron key.

Slipping the key into the pocket of her dressing gown, she made her way back towards her room. She paused as she passed the tapestry, the hand that held the candle shaking a bit. Biting her lower lip, Ella frowned at the wall. Madame Giry had been insistent that Ella should never attempt to contact her mysterious savior, and yet she has given precise directions to what Ella assumed was his current residence below the Opera. Ella, always a curious girl, had an uncanny knack of finding loopholes, in which she justified her taking action against the advice of others. Much to the chagrin of her parents, this was a common occurrence in her childhood. It would be unthinkably rude to snub and ignore a man who had saved her from "worse than death." Madame Giry could not be certain he wished to maintain his solitude, after all, she admittedly had not spoken to him for an age; and had he not appeared before her to rescue her from the clutches of Sebastien? All Ella wished to do was to thank him. Clearly, he had no general aversion to the company of others, if it was for a good cause. What better cause could there be than someone verbalizing their gratitude in a personal visit? For were not common courtesy and etiquette the very backbone of all polished societies? True, it was rather late in the evening to be making a call, and in one's nightdress too, but Ella was blessed with very selective reasoning at times, and plunging through a secret doorway in broad daylight would attract unwanted attention from others, not to mention going back to her room to dress would probably wake up Meg, and then where would they be? No, reasoned Ella, it was best to forge on, alone.

Ella ran a hand along the wall, searching for the secret key that had allowed her access before. Ella desperately tried to recall the exact circumstances and positioning of that first encounter with the secret passage. She had been dizzy, then she had—yes! She had leaned against the wall for just a moment! Ella cautiously leaned her weight against the wall and held her breath, waiting.

Nothing. With a sigh, she shifted a little to the side, and tried again.

Still silence.

Ella moved about on the wall, trying not to imagine the horridly comical picture she must present to any observer, rubbing her back against the wall in an attempt to—

There! With a low hum and the barest whisper of motion, the tapestry fluttered as the wall panel slid back behind it. Ella swallowed, her throat suddenly dry, as she pulled back the tapestry and bent her head under the low opening, the light from her candle flickering and seeming small in comparison to the suddenly huge darkness that yawned before her. Ella stepped into the passage and let the tapestry fall behind her, and began to descend into the shadows.

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A/N: OHMIGAWSH! BWAAAAAH! WHAT WAITS FOR HER BELOW? DEATH? COMEDY? DRAMA? (more) ANGST? TEH SEXX0Rz!1!1!1? Who knows? This is what we call a cliffhanger...also known as # 31 on the list of 101 Things You Can Do To Make Your Readership Hate You More Than They Already Do For Abandoning Them For The Summer. +kisses+ Toodles! 


	9. The Listening Dark

A/N: I am SO still alive! And it's Christmas break, so exams are done and at last some time to update! R&R as always! Erm...and by that I mean Read & Review, not Rest and Relaxation, although that IS kind of what I've been wallowing in for the past few hours...which I took to UPDATE, you thankless WRETCHES! heart Love, kisses, review my darlings! (It is late--pardon me, EARLY, and I am going through my happy/angry swings now. BASTARDS! I mean, sweethearts...Love you guys. Always. Even in the midst of my early morning rage. :D

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The bitter stench of cold stone and damp, mildewed wood choked the air, and Ella pressed the corner of her dressing gown over her nose and mouth and breathed with a little less difficulty. By the dim light of her candle, she found footholds along the steep and slippery passage, inching forward little by little. The path twisted and turned several times, and Ella noted that the walls seemed to get a little closer in some areas. At one point she paused as she saw a small hole near the floor of the passage, covered by a thin slat of wood and a sheet of newsprint. Ella set her candlestick on the floor and knelt unsteadily, her back and leg paining her a little as she lowered herself. Bending her head, she peeled back a corner of the newspaper—the paste used to fix it to the wall didn't adhere well to wood in such a humid environment. Peering through, she was able to make out a rat trap and a stack of clean, empty milk pans on a shelf. Frowning, she realized that she was behind the walls of the Opera cellar, where foods were kept cool in the underground stone chamber. Yet the passage went down further still—endlessly, it seemed, into the earth! 

Suppressing a shudder, she went farther along the passage, until, much to her surprise, the passage opened upon a landing at the top of a flight of stone steps. Ella made a slow circuit of the small space with her candle, and noted two more passages from different directions led onto the landing. Ella pulled the edges of her dressing gown closer together at her throat, as it was quite cold now. All hope of natural light had long since disappeared, and Ella's eyes peered furtively into the gloom, as if she could discern things by pure willpower.

Ella descended the staircase, awkwardly, as her leg and back were unused to so much walking on steep ground and in the cold that seeped into her bones and froze her joints.

At last, through the dim dark, she saw a darkly red object sealing the passage before her. With a grimace of disappointment at the dead end, Ella prepared to turn and head back up the passage. Then, she paused, and resumed her way down the passage. It hardly seemed to her like a cave-in or as if the corridor were bricked up. Something was odd about it. She approached the object, and it seemed to her a dusty red-brown in the gloom. It was a smooth surface, and she wondered if it was at all solid. She tentatively brushed her fingertip against it, and suppressed a gasp of shock as she found with giddy relief that it was a hanging piece of cloth. She fought the urge to laugh at herself for this irrational fear and disappointment that her search would have brought up nothing.

Ella gulped a little, her brow furrowing as she turned her attention back to the drapery. There was no telling what lay beyond it…perhaps the passage stopped abruptly…perhaps it didn't continue, and all she would see would be the end of the cold, damp, hollowed-out earth.

Ella crooked a finger around the edge of the cloth and twitched it to one side gingerly, peering through the small crack. She saw naught but black and could faintly hear the steady _tip-tip-tip _of falling water drops. That must mean the space continued far beyond the curtain, but what—?

Drawing the curtain aside a little more, Ella thrust her candlestick into the darkness, willing daylight to flood the entire area, to little avail. Scanning the ground, Ella could discern no sudden absence of a foothold, so, scraping the last vestiges of her courage from her near-empty reserves, Ella ventured out further.

"Oh!" the small sound of surprise left her quite unawares, echoing slightly as she was able to make out the dim outlines of things which were clearly not rock-formations. Holding her breath for a moment, she bent nearer to study a small desk crammed into what she supposed was a corner. Littered with paper, she saw snatches of crude sketches and more refined drawings, all of a woman with a remarkable face—not conventionally beautiful, though certainly pretty—and with an air of trusting sweetness and immovable faith that rendered it an extraordinary visage to wonder at. Ella tore her eyes from the pictures and noted that sheets of music lay piled on the corners of the desk. Admittedly, she could barely make out most of the notes, not having much of an aptitude for sight-reading in the first place, as she had found within a week of those wretched pianoforte lessons she had begun and stopped when she was ten years old. Added to that, the music itself was handwritten in a scrawling, spiked hand that Ella found very difficult to read under the layers of dust.

Ella quickly lost interest in the contents of the desk, although she often chided herself for being so fickle with occupying herself sometimes. Ella turned slowly to see what else she could find, when the thought broke upon her that someone had put these things down here. These belonged to someone…

The hairs on the back of Ella's neck stood on end, and she became even more acutely aware of the creeping cold darkness of the place.

"H-hello?" the word left her lips on a breath, barely audible, yet to Ella it seemed harsh and loud in the heavy silence of the cavern. Ella sucked in a breath to calm herself as she peered around the gloom, herself only illuminated in the glowing sphere of candlelight.

"Ah!" Ella gave a small cry and a hiss of pain as a drop of hot tallow form the candle fell onto her finger, the skin turning an angry, puckered red from the heat. Unthinkingly, Ella let the candlestick fall with a resounding crash. Before her horrified eyes, the candle spluttered, guttered, and went out.

The darkness pressed ever more against Ella's open eyes, as though a heavy veil had descended onto her. For now, she felt choked, immobile. She dared not take a single step in any direction, as her candlestick had gone out of view the moment the flame had died, the orange ember glowing on the wick lasting only moments longer.

Ella bit her lip and held her hand in front of her face, unable to see it even as she patted the tip of her nose repeatedly in some kind of desperation. Mid-pat, she stopped abruptly and closed her eyes resignedly with a sigh.

"Ella, stop being ridiculous. Think what they would say if they could see you…" Ella was no certain who she meant by "they." The thought made her pause, however, and again, a stinging awareness brought gooseflesh out all over her body in a tingling rush of apprehension as she no longer felt alone in the deep darkness of the echoing space.

Ella fell silent, and barely dared to breathe, half-hoping, half-fearing that whatever she sensed would find her in the darkness, with an ability to see where she was blind, to attack where she was defenseless. In that pitch black, Ella prayed as she had not prayed since Sebastien, fervently, silently.

Moments passed, and she knew not how long the silent darkness reigned in that small corner of torment. Ella heard nothing, but the prickling sensation did not abate as she stood stock-still.

A soft noise caused her eyes to pop open, and she wildly raked the darkness with her fearful gaze. A thin, sliding scrape, like metal on metal, followed by a soft puff, like a falling cloth, somewhere, far away in the darkness to Ella's left. Ella made not a sound, but her heart thundered in her chest and threatened to burst out through her throat at any moment.

Then, a glow, somewhere in the dimness, a small ball of light floated, around waist-height, swaying slightly, as if in some unseen wind. Ella saw no hand holding the light, nor even a candle. The light simply—was. Indeed it was dimmer than her candle, not illuminating much at all, but it was light. The light moved towards Ella, and she took a hasty, faltering step back. The light stopped in it's progress towards her, and then jerked back slightly to it's beginning position. It floated towards her twice more, always returning to it's previous place.

_It wants me to follow it,_ thought Ella, the ridiculousness of a light beckoning to her completely lost in her awe.

Ella took a hesitant step towards it, then, when the light made no motion to come nearer her this time, she took another step, then another. As she came closer, she studied the light closer, which seemed to be a light in a glass ball of some sort, as though fireflies were trapped within to floating ball. Ella cautiously reached out a finger, but the ball of light jolted backwards from her questioning hand, and Ella hastily withdrew her fingers, for fear the light would leave her.

Ella wanted to encourage the light vocally, somehow, but feared to whisper "go on," while the feeling that she was being watched from elsewhere in the area lingered. She contented herself by nodding at the light, which bathed her face in a pale white glow, unlike the yellow flickering of candlelight.

She followed the light as it moved, slowly, at last coming to rest before a thick red velvet curtain, which Ella recognized as the curtain covering the passage that had led her to this place. Eagerly, she swept it aside, and sped past the hovering light, which made as if to follow her. Turning back, she gazed at it for a moment, then shook her head slightly, a small smile forming on her face as she felt danger receding. Whatever it was, it had led her to safety. Her fear slipping away, Ella ran her hands along the damp passage walls almost lovingly.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For the light…for…everything. Whatever—whoever you are. Thank you."

With that, Ella turned and ran back up the passageway as fast as her protesting foot would allow, the heady rush of her excitement and freedom causing her to override the aches and spasms in her side as she went quickly up the steep, slippery steps.

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At long last, she came to the tapestry, behind which, the wall had thankfully not slid back into place. Ella rested against the inside wall of the passage to catch her breath before slipping back into the hallway, patting the tapestry back into place and smoothing it against the empty space behind it. Ella regarded it for only a moment, then turned to return to her and Meg's room to get at least a couple hours of sleep before the sun rose and the opera house came to life once more. _Yet,_ she thought, _when the opera lies dead at night, there is something—alive—down there._

As Ella went to enter her room, quietly turning the knob, she nearly tripped over a solid object at her feet. Stepping back and looking down, Ella could not believe her eyes.

There lay her candlestick, along with the scrap of fabric for Meg's costume neatly creased and folded beside it. Trembling, Ella retrieved the items, and glanced up and down the hallway, bathed in the cool blue glow of starlight, as the moon had set ages ago, when she had been underground. Nothing.

Ella entered the small bedroom, where Meg lay asleep, her soft, steady breathing filling the room. Ella replaced the candlestick on her tiny bedside table and tucked the piece of cloth under the edge of it, to show Meg in the morning.

_Well, later in the morning,_ thought Ella as she crawled sleepily under the covers.

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A/N: And guess what I'm doing? Yep, crawling into bed after posting this. So I will dream of you guys and your lovely early Christmas gift to me: a review! A long, plummy review chock full of critiques and, if you feel like it, praise! Admittedly I am an attention whore, even moreso around the holidays! puts on a tiara and grabs the kareoke mic Now taking requests for songs to sing. They have to be songs I know, so that limits it a bit. But anyhow, just give me applause!

And reviews!

Click the little purpley-blue button! It is a button that will grant you all your Christmas wishes and put you in contact with your very own Santa's Elf to serve all your needs! Provided you review, o' course!

Side note: Tequila Tango updates sometime soon! (Tomorrow, if I find time?)


	10. Decay of Dreams

**A/N: Ahem. An update. At last. The writer's block, she is ended. ALCOHOL FOR EVERYONE! (I had one of them "legalizing" birthdays while y'all were gone!)

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It had been weeks since Ella's escapade within the bowels of the opera house, and she had been forced to shove all memories and questions into the back of her mind in order to focus on more pressing issues. The Opera finished a triumphant run of performances for "Béatrice et Bénédict," and began to prepare for rehearsals of their next opera of the season. Ella had been busy organizing her sewing room and putting away costumes in their proper places. Early on in her time at the Opera, she'd fallen to and re-arranged the entire costume stores to suit her own system, and there was an even more difficult task in getting her two little rosy-cheeked assistants to adapt.

Today, however, she'd had a headache—Ella preferred to work longer hours by herself than put up with fumble-fingered girls when her head ached this badly. So she'd sent Eloise and Brigitte home early, and watched them tittering between themselves as they rolled up their work aprons and clattered off down the hall. Now it was late, and Ella was finishing up in what was left of the natural light, not paying attention to the soft scuffling of feet and the smeared voices that passed by in the corridor. A gong sounded and the occupants of the opera house went to supper in the kitchens. Ella put off going down, as she had a few things to tidy away before she felt she had accomplished what she wished to that day.

She picked up her work basket and slipped out the door, locking it behind herself with the small key given to her by Mr. Brigham. As she went down the little passage and turned into one of the main corridors of the opera house, Ella was very nearly bowled over by a steady stream of people rushing along the passage, a few muttering between themselves in hushed voices, most looking pale and grave, their lips drawn in tight lines. Just as many bodies seemed to push in the opposite direction, and Ella stepped back into the recess of the tiny hallway that led to her workroom and tried to ask in halting French what was the matter. Her French was shaky at best, and now it deteriorated as Ella's confusion mounted. The dusky faces turned away from her, however, either not understanding her pidgin communication or avoiding her questions deliberately.

Far away in the crush of sweaty bodies caked in powder and wrapped in starched, rough linens, Ella thought she heard a voice calling her name. At last she caught sight of a tall man pushing through the crowd. James Brigham eventually stood beside her, trying to catch his breath for a moment.

"What is happening, Monsieur Brigham? Forgive me, take a moment to get your breath. I tried to ask—but no one—"

"I came to find you," said James, as if he had not heard her. He looked rumpled and a little dazed as he stared down at Ella in something akin to wonderment that had Ella furrowing her brow slightly as her bewildered mind seemed to outdo itself yet again in the levels of perplexity it had reached. "I saw you were not at supper,"

"I had some things to see to …"

"So I came to find you," he repeated, still gasping a little for air.

"Please, Monsieur Brigham, you are overwrought. Take a moment to breathe."

"Forgive me, Miss Marwood—I…" he paused for a moment, blanched, then sat heavily down on the two steps that dropped from the workroom hallway. "I had thought my constitution stronger than this." He glanced sidelong at Ella, who had placed her basket on the floor and sat down beside him, peering worriedly into his face.

"Should I get you something to drink? Shall I call a doctor?"

"No, oh, no, thank you, Miss Marwood. I am well." He gulped a few deeper breaths. "Madame Giry sent me to find you. Well, I'd have come in any case, but she desired me to look for you as well. You must go to her, she is looking for you."

"Now?"

"At once, immediately." James stood again and gave his hand to Ella to help her stand. She placed a hand on his arm for fear he would sway violently.

"Are you certain you are not ill?"

"I am well, thank you. Thank God. And how are you? How are you feeling? Are you at all unwell? Any…any…are you feeling at all warm?" He raised his hand and unthinkingly brushed his fingertips across her forehead. He dropped his hand after such a short moment that later Ella would wonder if she had only imagined his touch.

"I had a bit of a headache, earlier…" James' brows dropped with concern. "But I am better now," she added hastily.

"Yes. Well. Yes, good. Excellent…" James stepped back from Ella and stuck his head out into the passage, which was beginning to clear, but still had a constant flow of people through it. "Miss Marwood, you must find Madame Giry at once. She will tell you…" He turned back to face Ella and gave her a long look that was almost pained. "Goodbye, Miss Marwood. Madame Giry is waiting for you." He stepped into the multitude of people and disappeared.

"Goodbye…" whispered Ella politely, even though he was long gone. She waited a few more minutes until the crowd thinned out, then made her way to the grand foyer of the Opera.

Madame Giry and Meg stood in their street clothes, looking anxiously about as a few remaining footmen milled about.

"Ella!" Meg called as she spotted her friend, waving her over to where she and her mother stood. "There you are! We've been—"

"Meg, take this money to pay for a carriage and a room," interrupted Madame Giry, handing a small purse to her daughter. "I packed some of your things for you, my dear," she said, her words kind, her tone distracted and flat, as she handed a valise to Ella.

"What…?"

"Cholera," said Meg, her voice low and the edge of fright hissing through it like a doused candle. "Two of the girls in the dormitories. They've been quarantined and we must leave the opera until they are well." Meg glanced at the purse in her palm. "Mama, aren't you coming with us?"

"I will stay with Lucille and Josephine."

"Mama! You cannot!"

"I will, Meg. Do not argue."

"But—the expense of a hotel, for how long? Can you…?"

She kissed the top of her daughter's head and cradled Ella's cheek in her palm.

"You will be spared, God-willing, if we get you out now. I am willing to pay any price I must for that." Ella thought she saw a glint of tears in the older woman's eyes. "But Josephine and Lucille—I cannot leave them here alone with the doctors, if they will come. It is early yet, but—"

Madame Giry clasped Ella and Meg in her arms for a moment. "You must understand, my dears—you are all my daughters; and we must not be selfish in times like these." She placed a kiss on each forehead again, and Ella felt a sudden longing for her own mother—despite Madame Giry's words. For a moment she thought she could smell her mother's scent—a mixture of flowers and beeswax and a starchy smell from the hot iron pulled glowing from the fire. Tears pricked her eyelids, and she took Meg's arm as the two girls left the opera house to flag down a Hansom cab, painted green for the _Abeille _carriage-for-hire company.

The girls found a small, inexpensive, but clean hotel not too far from the opera house.

"It was probably Josephine's fault," said Meg, her fear making her lapse into an uncharacteristic bitterness. "Always sneaking off to visit her filthy Jewish beau in _le Marais_. Everyone knows cholera flourishes in such un-Godly places. They said it has broken out all along the _rue des Rosiers_." Meg sat down on the bed and wept quietly for a while. Ella squeezed her shoulder in comfort, and went to prop a chair under the door handle. Even though the room had a lock, the hotel clerk had leered unpleasantly at them as the girls had taken the room for the night.

"What happens now?" Ella wondered aloud as she sat next to Meg on the edge of the creaking bed, her friend's frightened sobs gradually quieting.

"We wait to hear from Mama," said Meg absently as she rose and crossed to the window. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, having forgotten her handkerchief, and stared out the small, blue-tinged panes of cold glass to the street below as carriages clattered by on the cobbled stones and a few scattered people hurried along the sidewalks.

"Come away from the window, Meg. We must try to get some sleep," said Ella. "It is late."

Meg turned to face Ella, her chin trembling slightly.

"But is it too late?" she asked, shaking her head, her voice descending to a hysterical whisper as her eyes widened with tragic despair. "I am so frightened! So many people have died before—so many will die!"

Ella hugged her friend fiercely and stroked her golden hair.

"But we shall not," she said resolutely, wanting to believe in herself for Meg's sake.


End file.
